


Alpha Collection

by conceptofzero



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-10-25
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-24 23:17:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 131
Words: 55,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/conceptofzero/pseuds/conceptofzero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An assortment of ficlets set in the Troll's universe, most about the carapaces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Index

These ficlets come from an assorting of writing Wednesday prompts over on [tumblr](http://conceptofzero.tumblr.com).

Chapter 2 - True Romance (M - Snowman/Slick)  
Chapter 3 - Bedtime Stories (T - CD, SS, DD, HB)  
Chapter 4 - Illicit (T - DD, Trace)  
Chapter 5 - Delivery (G - PM/Snowman)  
Chapter 6 - Boy's Stuff (G - genderswap Itchy)  
Chapter 7 - Sharking (G - Trace, Snowman)  
Chapter 8 - Thread (G - Scratch)  
Chapter 9 - Mutual (T - Snowman/Slick)  
Chapter 10 - Slammer (T - SS, DD, CD, HB)  
Chapter 11 - Treason (G - HB)  
Chapter 12 - Dame (M - HB, OC)  
Chapter 13 - Swap (G - genderswap Crowbar)  
Chapter 14 - Three (T - DD, PI)  
Chapter 15 - Afternoons (G - HB, CD)  
Chapter 16 - Bodice-Ripper (G - SS, HB)  
Chapter 17 - Brawl (T - SS, DD, HB, CD)  
Chapter 18 - Punny (T - SS, PS)  
Chapter 19 - Tails (T - DD, Stitch)  
Chapter 20 - Storm (G - SS, DD, CD, HB)  
Chapter 21 - Stallion (T - SS/HB)  
Chapter 22 - Fragile (T - Snowman/Crowbar)  
Chapter 23 - Regrets (T - Midnight City PM/WV)  
Chapter 24 - Pat (T - Stitch, Snowman, Fin, Trace, Crowbar)  
Chapter 25 - Bed (G - HB, CD)  
Chapter 26 - Smoke (T - Snowman, DD)  
Chapter 27 - All The Pretty Horses (T - HB/CB, DD)  
Chapter 28 - Day Out (G - HB)  
Chapter 29 - Bet (M - Itchy, Crowbar)  
Chapter 30 - Date (T - Itchy, HB)  
Chapter 31 - Doc (T - Doc Scratch, Stitch)  
Chapter 32 - Present (G - Matchsticks, CB)  
Chapter 33 - Pipes (T - Die/Itchy)  
Chapter 34 - Exception (T - DD/CD, SS)  
Chapter 35 - Turkey (G - Doc Scratch, Itchy)  
Chapter 36 - Perks (G - DD, Jack Noir)  
Chapter 37 - Drag (G - DD, SS)  
Chapter 38 - Mutual Fascination (T - AR/Snowman)  
Chapter 39 - Rubble (T - CD, HB, DD, SS)  
Chapter 40 - Saucy (G - DD/CD, HB)  
Chapter 41 - Prices and Values (G - DD)  
Chapter 42 - Night Swimming (T - Fin, Trace)  
Chapter 43 - Chill (T - HB/SS)  
Chapter 44 - Self Imposed (T - DD/CD)  
Chapter 45 - Intersection (T - Snowman/Jaq Noir - Genderswap)  
Chapter 46 - Irony (G - Doc Scratch, DD)  
Chapter 47 - Merry Little Christmas (T - SS, DD, CD, HB - Stabdads)  
Chapter 48 - Red (M - Slick/Snowman)  
Chapter 49 - Seeing Double (T - WQ/Snowman, Itchy)  
Chapter 50 - Luster (T - JN, WQ)  
Chapter 51 - The Dog Throw (T - SS/Male OC)  
Chapter 52 - Reenactment (Gen - Doc Scratch, Itchy, Die, Snowman)  
Chapter 53 - Cointoss (T - Clover/Quarters)  
Chapter 54 - The New Normal (Gen - Handmaid, Doc Scratch)  
Chapter 55 - Makeover Makeover (Gen - Doc Scratch, SS)  
Chapter 56 - Buds (T - HB, Snowman, OFC)  
Chapter 57 - Creep (T - Trace)  
Chapter 58 - Courage (T - Itchy, Doze)  
Chapter 59 - Sulk (T - Die, Stitch)  
Chapter 60 - Toss Up (T - Cans/Clover, Quarters/Clover)  
Chapter 61 - Intel (T - CD, Crowbar)  
Chapter 62 - Domestic Duties (Gen - DD/CD)  
Chapter 63 - Let Down (Gen - Crowbar/Die, one-sided)  
Chapter 64 - Drag (Gen - HB, SS, DD)  
Chapter 65 - Crushed (Gen - Doze, Snowman)  
Chapter 66 - Vacation (Gen - DD, CD)  
Chapter 67 - Suits (T - HB, DD)  
Chapter 68 - Pair (Gen - Biscuits)  
Chapter 69 - Molt (Gen - Snowman, Stitch)  
Chapter 70 - One Night Stand (T - CD)  
Chapter 71 - Anniversary (T - Snowman/SS, Stabprofs)  
Chapter 72 - Close Shave (M - Snowman/SS)  
Chapter 73 - Riddle (G - Clover/Cans)  
Chapter 74 - Overthinking (M - PI/AD)  
Chapter 75 - Boneyard (T - Snowman, WQ)  
Chapter 76 - Toothless (T - Fin, Droog, Slick)  
Chapter 77 - Clever Girl (T - Crowbar, Snowman, Doc Scratch)  
Chapter 78 - Take Care (T - Midnight Crew, Felt)  
Chapter 79 - Ivory Hand (T - WQ)  
Chapter 80 - Trophy (T - Doze, Itchy)  
Chapter 81 - Panic (T - Die, Crowbar, Itchy)  
Chapter 82 - Dersert (G - Crowbar, Itchy, Snowman, Fin, Biscuits, Quarters)  
Chapter 83 - Steamed (T - DD, SS, Carapacian OCs)  
Chapter 84 - Brouhaha (T - DD, Itchy, Carapacian OCs)  
Chapter 85 - Voracious Appetite (T - SS, DD, HB, CD)  
Chapter 86 - Fractions (T - Itchy, Clover, Quarters, Fin)  
Chapter 87 - Change in Management (T - Snowman)  
Chapter 88 - Nipple Play (T - Itchy, Sawbuck, Die)  
Chapter 89 - Carpet (T - Crowbar, Itchy, Die)  
Chapter 90 - Burning For You (T - Itchy, Stitch)  
Chapter 91 - The Switch (T - Doze, Itchy)  
Chapter 92 - Toothbrush (T - Fin, Quarters)  
Chapter 93 - Golden Boy (T - Crowbar - Dress Rehearsal Rag AU)  
Chapter 94 - Pulp (G - Crowbar, Die)  
Chapter 95 - Sticky Situation (M - Snowman/SS)  
Chapter 96 - Frills (T - DD, Aradia, Carapacian OC)  
Chapter 97 - Seves and Sixens (T - Crowbar, Die - Powerswap)  
Chapter 98 - Partners in Crime (T - Snowman/Crowbar/SS - AU)  
Chapter 99 - Sleeping Patterns (T - DD/SS)  
Chapter 100 - Feedback (T - Trace, Itchy, Fin, Sawbuck, Crowbar, Biscuits)  
Chapter 101 - Knife To Meet You (T - Snowman/SS)  
Chapter 102 - Crown (T - Crowbar, Die, Snowman - Powerswap)  
Chapter 103 - The Voodoo That You Do (T - Crowbar, Die)  
Chapter 104 - Compliment (M - Crowbar/Snowman)  
Chapter 105 - Alone In The Universe Tonight (T - Snowman, Doc Scratch)  
Chapter 106 - Cold One (M - Crowbar/Die)  
Chapter 107 - Fountain (G - Crowbar, Snowman - AU)  
Chapter 108 - Queer (T - Crowbar/Snowman)  
Chapter 109 - 11-23-2945 14-17-06.fly (M - Itchy/Doze - Cyberpunk AU)  
Chapter 110 - Slam (T - Die, Itchy, Trace)  
Chapter 111 - High Times (T - Die, Crowbar)  
Chapter 112 - Box (T - Itchy, Snowman)  
Chapter 113 - Phone Sex (M - Snowman/SS, SS/DD)  
Chapter 114 - Skullfuck (M - SS, Carapacian OC)  
Chapter 115 - Little Bastard (T - SS, DD, HB, CD)  
Chapter 116 - Sick Burns (T - Matchsticks, Crowbar)  
Chapter 117 - Pocket Monsters (T - Snowman, Clover, Crowbar)  
Chapter 118 - Three's Company (T - SS/Crowbar/Snowman)  
Chapter 119 - Attack on Midnight City (T - SS, Snowman)  
Chapter 120 - Fruitful (T - Crowbar/Snowman)  
Chapter 121 - Pizza Envy (G - Caliborn, Crowbar, Trace, Fin, Clover)  
Chapter 122 - Yank (T - DD/SS/Snowman)  
Chapter 123 - Slumber (G - Crowbar/Snowman)  
Chapter 124 - Crash (T - Itchy/Doze, Doze/Trace)  
Chapter 125 - Wrong Charm (T - Itchy/Doze, Trace/Doze)  
Chapter 126 - Dominate (M - Snowman/Slick)  
Chapter 127 - Quirk (T - Itchy, Clover, Matchsticks)  
Chapter 128 - Drift (M - Snowman/Slick - Pacific Drift AU)  
Chapter 129 - Chatterboxes (T - Quarters/Trace/Itchy)  
Chapter 130 - Date (T - Itchy/Crowbar)  
Chapter 131 - Loofah (T - Itchy/Die)


	2. True Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Will you write some happyishstuck with slick and snowman, my tears are too many from EOA5.

She tastes like smoke and gunpowder, bitter to the fucking core, and Slick can’t get enough of it. He’s bleeding all over her, which is only right and fair since she was the one who stuck that fucking lance through his shoulder, so the least she deserves is to get her clothes ruined.

There’s a hail of bullets flying over their heads, the steady incessant sound of hot lead seeking out warm flesh. Her hands on his shoulders and he’s on his back with her sprawled over him like a tiger. Slick has two tight fistfuls of her jacket, keeping her close as he mashes his mouth against hers.

The crates haphazardly stacked around them keep them safe from the worst of the fight, though now and again, something explodes and they’re coated in another layer of dust and splinters. His tongue is in her mouth and his hands are clutching the fucking universe tight enough to make it shudder.

Voices rise as their respective gangs draw near, and they reluctantly break apart, both still holding one another too close. Her lips are bleeding where he bit them, and he licks his lips, tasting iron and lipstick. She lifts her lance up, slipping the bloody end into her mouth, and his mouth just goes dry.

“See you soon Slick.” Snowman gets to her feet. He watches her fade away, the real world flooding back in a moment later. His arm throbs like a son of a bitch, and he has to grab his gun with his wrong hand, rising a moment later.

The first Felt member comes around a stack of crates, and as Slick squeezes the trigger on his gun, all he can think about is her.


	3. Bedtime Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chronomaly asked:  
> What would happen if Clubs Deuce asked for bedtime stories from each of the crew?

Once upon a time, there was a Dersite named Clubs Deuce who couldn’t get to sleep. He tried all sorts of things: fresh sheets, warm milk, soft music, even counting sheep. But nothing seemed to work.

He had to get to sleep - they had a big heist tomorrow and Deuce had to set up the charges! How could he do that if he wasn’t well rested? So, he grabbed his pillow and he headed out to get a story to lull him to sleep.

Deuce found Slick sitting at his piano, drinking whiskey and fussing with a tune. He positioned himself near the end of the bench. “Slick, I can’t get to sleep.”

“So? What do I fucking care?” Slick hammered out a chord, sneering at the keys like they had personally slighted him. “Piece of shit piano.”

“If I don’t sleep, I can’t do a good job tomorrow.” He widens his eyes, just a little, and does his best to look as much like a puppy as possible, which sometimes works with Slick. “Can you please tell me a story?”

Slick finished his whiskey and set the glass aside. “Once upon a time Deuce couldn’t sleep so I fucking stabbed him and he passed out from blood loss, and then nobody fucking bothered me.” He fills his glass and adds as an afterthought. “The end.”

Deuce decides to leave before that story comes true. The next person he asks a story from is Droog, who is sitting at the kitchen table and reading the newspaper. “Droog, I can’t sleep.”

Droog turns the page, not bothering to acknowledge Deuce.

Deuce pushes, since apparently just stating he can’t sleep isn’t getting him anywhere. “Can you tell me a story?”

“No.” His eyes slowly scan the page.

“Please?” Deuce doesn’t bother with the big eyes. They never seem to work on Droog. “I need to sleep, and I can’t do it without a story. Pleeeeaaasee-“

“Stop.” Droog sets his paper down. “You aren’t a child. Don’t act like one.”

“But-” Deuce’s attempts to coax a story out of Droog ends with Droog rolling up the newspaper and wapping Deuce over the head with it until he retreats.

Boxcars is in the living room with the radio on, listening to jazz music. Deuce reluctantly approaches with his pillow. “Boxcars? I can’t sleep?”

“Me either.” Boxcars yawns, shaking his head. “I’m real fucking tired, but it’s ain’t coming.”

“Could you tell me a story?” Deuce looks hopefully up at him, feeling disappointed when Boxcars just shakes his head. “Oh… sorry for asking.”

He’s about to walk out when Boxcars gets a hold of Deuce’s PJ’s, yanking him up into the air and settling on the couch with Boxcars. “I’m listening to a soap right now, I ain’t about to talk over that. But you can listen with me if you want.”

“Oh… okay.” He sets his pillow down against Boxcars’ stomach and lays his head on it. The radio comes back from its sponsor listing and segues right back into what appears to be a very complex love triangle. Deuce listens to it, not really understanding the plot, but enjoying just the sound of talking, and slowly drifts off.


	4. Illicit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chronomaly asked:  
> What would happen if any member of the crew caught Droog reading his Grey Ladies and confronted him on it? Or worse, someone not from the crew?

Droog first began to suspect the Felt had infiltrated their hideout when he set his Grey Ladies down to mix another drink, and returned to find it open to the wrong page.

He knew it wasn’t an accident. Droog was a very particular man. When he put something down, he knew exactly where he put it down, and what page it was open to, and the position it had been set down in. Someone had been touching his paper, since it was open to the wrong page.

His first thought was Deuce, though that was dismissed just as quickly. Deuce wouldn’t have hid, and he wouldn’t have tried to put the paper back. Whoever touched the paper attempted to put it back and had not quite done it, missing both the proper page and the exact location on the bed. Boxcars was out, and if Slick was responsible for this, he would be sitting on Droog’s bed, sneering at him and insulting his taste in literature, as if somehow his own illicit materials were beyond questioning.

With the three obvious suspects, the only other one became crystal clear. Droog could not hear the sniggering from Trace, but he was certain that Trace was there, if only because if had been Fin, Droog would have noticed bloodstains around here. As well, he could see fingerprint smudges on the paper where someone had been careless. Droog casually sat back down, settling the paper in his lap and turning to the next page. One of his hands slipped into his jacket pocket, producing a cigarette. The other slipped out a card, flipping it into a gun and spraying an arc directly in front of it.

The bullets sprayed out the empty door, except for two which simply disappear into the time stream. The bullets chip the paint off the concrete walls outside his room, but they don’t leave any holes that might be spotted by idiots who thought breaking into the hide-out was a good idea. There’s also a bright spray of blood that appears on the wall, one that Droog will have to clean up before Trace arrives later.

He’s wondering if he killed Trace when he feels something heavy hit the side of his head, and Droog goes sprawling out on the floor. That’s a no then. He summons his pool cue and rises to his feet, ready to hit Trace if he’s sticking around. But nothing of the sort happens. Trace just leaves, and Droog makes a note to himself to be out of his room later.

He also makes a note to make sure the room’s empty before he settles in with his paper next time. Not because he’s ashamed, just because he doesn’t want any more grubby prints on his newspaper.


	5. Delivery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> deathsbuddy asked:  
> PM/Snowman spaghetti

It’s past midnight and as much as PM would like to pretend this is a one-time thing, that she is always safe in bed by the time that thin yellow crescent rises, she finds herself standing out in the moonlight more and more often.

Tonight’s emergency package is fifteen take-out boxes full of steaming warm spaghetti. Three nights ago, it was a dozen bottles of rum. And the requests only get odder from there. She has dozens of letters at home from home and all of them look blank until you tilt them just so in the light. They always show up in her mail slot, even when the mail’s already been delivered for the day, even when PM knows the mailman hasn’t done his rounds today because the lazy asshole is drunk again. They are always concise and polite, a list of locations and times to be there. And no matter the time, when she arrives, there’s somewhere waiting to provide her with whatever’s been ordered.

Tonight’s spaghetti was delivered by a frightened looking cook who quickly piled the boxes into PM’s parcel bag and then quickly retreated inside. The heat from the boxes warms her back as she heads out into the desert, following the few roads that jut out, heading for nowhere. A bike is not the best mode of transportation in the desert, and most of the paths are covered with sand. But they’re always clear when the Felt request a delivery, and she rides out into the darkness unafraid.

She arrives at that twisting labyrinthine nightmare of architecture, all the lights on and music blaring from an unseen player. Usually, the man with the red hat is waiting outside for her to pay PM and take things, but tonight, there’s nobody waiting. She puts down her kickstand and heads up the stairs, ringing the doorbell and waiting for an answer.

PM isn’t sure who to expect, but she certainly doesn’t expect the door to swing open to reveal the Black Queen. Her mind corrects herself a heartbeat later - Snowman, not the Queen anymore, just Snowman.

“Delivery for the Felt.” PM slides the bag off her shoulders, trying not to stare. She’s never been this close before. It’s kind of amazing. She’s heard about her and all the stores. PM laughed when GY told her that Snowman had stars in her coat. Except she can see them, glowing softly, and it’s not quite so funny. “It’s spaghetti.”

“I know.” Snowman smiles at her, and PM feels like maybe she ran off the road and hit her head, and she’s really asleep right now. “What’s your name?”

“Proficient Messenger.” Even though it all feels surreal, she still keeps her composure, her professionalism just taking over, answering questions. “Can you accept the delivery?”

“Of course.” Snowman slips her hand into her pocket and produces a small wad of bills. It may be rude to count it, but PM does it anyway, making sure there’s enough to cover everything. There is, with some extra for a tip. Meanwhile, Snowman nods towards the bike. “That must have been a long ride.”

“It’s not so bad. It’s nice and quiet, and I have plenty of time to think.” PM picks up the bag. “Where would you like this?”

“That can go in the dining room. And you can stay with me until daybreak. No sense in riding home in the dark.” Snowman gives her another smile before heading inside, not waiting to see if PM will follow. For a moment, she stands there, openly staring at her.

And then instinct takes over and she picks up her bag. The delivery isn’t finished until her bag’s empty. … and perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to wait for the sun to come up before heading back. It would certainly be a lot safer.

PM heads inside, still undecided even as she closes the door behind her.


	6. Boy's Stuff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> baby girl itchy
> 
> (using the Felt names I settled on in Dress Rehearsal Rag. Keor = Itchy)

She manages to avoid her parents for a whole hour while hiding in the swamp. Keor knows it’s dangerous, but she doesn’t care. She’s fast and she’s clever, and she knows better than to jump on logs that are probably just crocs waiting to sink their teeth into something. The boys won’t wait for her, so she makes her own fun, picking up sticks and pretending they’re guns and running from imaginary enemies.

But eventually she’s forced to come out when her mom starts threatening to throw away Gro’rg’s hand-me-downs. Keor can stand a lot of stuff, but she can’t stand the thought of losing all those pants she had to wait for her brothers to outgrow so she could have some.

Her mother gasps in horror when Keor finally emerges, hands flying to her mouth. “Your dress! That was your church dress!”

Keor glances down. The dress was a pristine white when she was crammed into this morning. Now it’s more of a brownish-yellow, ripped and soaked with swamp water and mud. She’s also missing a shoe from when she misjudged a jump and her foot sunk into the swampy mud just beneath the water surface.

“Young lady, look what you’ve done to your mother.” Her father looks very stern. Behind him, Gro’rg makes a face at her, and she makes one back. “Keor!”

“It’s not my fault! They left me behind and wouldn’t show me any of the safe paths!” Tattling is her failsafe, and the moment the words are out of her mouth, her parents swing around to look at her brother.

”She’s a girl! She’s supposed to stay with the girls and do girl things!” Gro’rg huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “She’s not a boy!”

“I don’t want to do girl stuff! I want to do boy stuff with the boys! I want to play in the swamp!” Keor doesn’t care if she’s making a fuss or if her mom looks like she’s about to cry. She knows what she wants, and it isn’t fussing with skirts and standing around and being afraid to sit on things because something might get stained. “And if you wouldn’t run away-“

“If you wouldn’t follow us-” Their escalating fight quickly ends as mother just bursts into tears.

“Get to the car, now. We’ll deal with this when we get home.” They all know that tone. Dad’s going to paddle their asses so hard when they get home. Keor and Gro’rg head for the car, both quietly glowering at each other.

Soon as Keor’s able to, she’s going to Swap, and she’s never going back, and that’s that.


	7. Sharking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cryborgfatom asked:  
> Trace and Snowman

The Felt’s scattered and Trace can’t seem to find where anybody else went. There’s just him and Snowman hiding up on the fire escape while those assholes from the bar waste their time going in circles to find them. Trace pats the wad of bills in his pocket to make sure they’re still there, the ill-gotten gains from a round of pool sharking.

Snowman could leave at any moment. Trace isn’t really sure why. Maybe she’s decided to hang around as back-up, which is something he’s going to need if those assholes spot him.

The footsteps fade as the dicks head off into the alleys to see if Trace went that way, their past-trails hanging thick in the air. His shoulders slump with relief, and he promptly points his middle finger at the space where they were. “Assholes.”

“You did cheat them.” Snowman lights a cigarette, offering one to Trace. He takes it and leans in as she lights his as well. “How did you learn to play like that?”

“My dad. He was a huge con man. Whenever he’d go hustling, he’d take me along.” Trace smiles, remembering those times spent in pool halls and on street corners with his dad, scamming idiots out of their money. “People get greedy when they think they can make money off of somebody. Doesn’t matter where the money comes from, as long as somebody looks like an easy target, they’ll take the bait. Then you just build them up and knock ‘em down.”

“What a charming childhood. It must have been nice to spend time with your father,” Snowman says, and Trace side-eyes her. She blows out smoke and stands up. “We should go now.”

“Sure, fine,” He stands, pauses, and adds, “He was a good dad, taught me everything I needed to know about life. That man’s the reason I don’t gamble unless I’m sharking. The odds are against you, luck always leaves, and the house always wins.”

“He sounds like a very wise man to have taught you this. But we should still go.” She nods towards the top of the staircase and Trace gets moving.

The worst thing is that he can never tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. As far as he knows, maybe she does think his childhood was great. It’s not like she’s got anything to judge it by.


	8. Thread

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jessicasephiroth asked:  
> Uh lets see, if you are still doing writing fills correct? How about Scratch waking up from Hussies attack and his thoughts/reaction on his ripped leg? I hope that hasn't been done yet? :U

Scratch comes out of his dark pocket and finds himself lying on the floor of his study. It comes as no surprise to him. While he was unaware of the events that would occur within the dark pocket, he was aware that he would find himself on the other side, sprawled out like this. He was also aware that his leg would be torn off, though the knowledge that his leg would be hanging by a string is not quite like the reality of things.

It is a pity that Stitch is dead, but like the rest of the Felt (Snowman excluded for the time being), his death was necessary to bring about his employers goals. After all, the 8-ball cannot be sunk until the table has been cleared of all other balls, the cue excluded.

He draws a prepare needle and thread from the hole in his back and sits up, pulling his limb close. Stitching himself back together is a simple task. He feels no pain as the thread feeds through the cloth, only comfort as his body is reassembled. The stitches are neat and tidy, and when he is finished, his leg looks almost new. But not quite.

He snips the thread and stands. Scratch knows his leg will hold, but he also knows he will keep his weight on his other leg, so he does so. He feels comfort as he obeys the natural order of thing, this calm soothing sensation that flows through him and assures Scratch that this continues to be the alpha timeline and that his vision is uninterrupted.

Andrew Hussie has fled with the discs. Let him. There’s nothing he can do to stop Lord English’ plans. Let him remain occupied by light and sound and the need to indulge himself via authorial self-insert. There is nothing he can do.

Lord English is already here.


	9. Mutual

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Prompt: Snowman and Slick, hiding from their crews in a love affair~~

Slick lets himself into the hotel room, slamming the door behind him and locking it tight. He strips down to his underwear, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor as he stomps through the room. Snowman idly glances up from her place on the bed, and the open novel in front of her. “Long day?”

“Long fucking day? You have no idea.” Slick snaps the radio on and tunes it to the local jazz station. “I’m going to murder those fucking idiots. We had a bank job to pull, a real simple bank job. It should have been a cakewalk. But nooooo, that’s too fucking much to ask those idiots.”

“I heard you burned the bank down before you could get into the vault.” Snowman flips a page and Slick sneers with annoyance, just thinking about that cash going up in smoke. “It wouldn’t have mattered. We were already in the vault this morning. And the money we were attempting to remove is currently rotting in some sinkhole thirty million years in the past.”

“Sawbuck?” Slick asks, and barks with laughter when Snowman nods. “What a fucking idiot. Good to hear your circus is going about as well as mine.”

“We do our best with what we’re given.” Snowman makes room for Slick on the bed as he crawl in beside her. She takes a moment to mark the page she’s on before setting the book safely out of reach. And then, and only then, does she straddle Slick and lean down to kiss him.

It’s funny. Of all the things to bring Snowman and Slick together, he would have never guessed it would be a mutual desire to spend a few hours with someone who wasn’t brain-numbingly stupid that would do it.


	10. Slammer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chronomaly asked:  
> Oh! What would happen if Slick got thrown in jail and actually had to stay there?

It takes him two months to run the joint.

Sure, he’s pissed at first. They drag Slick out of the courtroom, cursing and spitting at anyone who isn’t fast enough, and they have to beat him down to keep him from killing the guards. They lock him up in a cell with the biggest bastard they can find and sit back and wait to see what happens.

Slick kills him easily and after they thrown him in solitary for a few weeks, they throw another big bastard in with him again. He kills that one too and takes his shiv, finding it fits nicely in the palm of his hands. When the guards show up to take him to solitary this time, Slick makes sure to get their names before they haul him off to that tiny room.

There’s nobody waiting in Slick’s cell when he emerges. He keeps on his best behavior, lets those assholes think they’re the ones calling the shots. It’s hard, but he had to do that under the bitch, and these assholes will never be half the ball-breaker that she was. Slick bides his time, keeps his shiv handy, and waits.

Time rolls around, and Slick finds himself sitting across from Droog. He’s cuffed to the table and there’s a guard nearby to keep an eye on him. They don’t, and it’s all to easy to pass the list of names onto Droog. “Teach ‘em what it means to fuck with me,” He tells Droog, fiddling with his cuffs, “Remind them that I might be in here, but I still run this fucking town.”

Droog nods, slips the list of his sleeve, and leaves without making a big deal out of things. Slick just sits back and waits. Droog’s good at this shit, always was, and suddenly the guards that were trying to give him a hard time are being real eager to give Slick slack. The few who try to take out their rage on Slick only pay a higher price. He gets solitary for three months, but they yank him out after a few days, the fucking warden apologizing for the mix-up. There’s a bruise on his face the exact shape and side of the butt end of Droog’s pool cue.

Two weeks after that, Slick’s cell is the best decorated one on the whole cell block. He’s got a real bed and couch, and they bring him food - not the slop they feed the others, but real fucking food. He’s got a record player and music, and late at night, the guards even send in a girl or two. The Crew comes to visit near the end of the two months. Deuce thinks Slick’s “new house” is almost as neat as the hideout. Boxcars and Droog are both on edge, clearly uncomfortable with standing in a prison cell. Slick doesn’t give a fuck. They can get used to it.

“We’re working the judge over right now. We figure we can get your sentence changed, dropped to six months instead of six years.” Droog eyes up the place. “Not that it matters. You’re clearly well taken care of in here.”

“Thanks to you fuckers,” Slick leans back on the couch, grinning with pleasure, “It ain’t all that bad. But I still want to get the fuck outta here soon as I can. I can’t run things from in here.”

“Sure looks like you can boss.” Boxcars points out.

Slick considers that. “Yeah, fine, maybe I can. But it doesn’t mean I want to. But… this is fine for the moment, until you can get me the fuck out of here.”

He already knows what he’s doing when he gets released. First, he’s going to go eat in a restaurant with the Crew and get rip roaring drunk. And then, he’s going to find his attorney and murder that motherfucker for not going his goddamn job and keeping Slick out of jail. And then?

And then he’s going to make this town remember that no matter where they put Slick, he’s always going to run it.


	11. Treason

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chronomaly asked:  
> Does Boxcars have any stories about being in jail on Derse?

His stay in jail is brief, short and painful. Jack’s gone by then, and nobody knows exactly what happened to him. But less than a day after they won and exiled the Black Queen, Jack suddenly disappeared, and all of his crimes came to the surface, just in time to get the Brute caught.

Dignitary and Droll are gone too, but the Brute isn’t worried about those two. He knows Dignitary saw the writing on the wall and made a run for it. And they’d never find the Droll, not among those millions just like him. He could just hide and wait out the worst.

But not the Brute. He was still wearing his heart pin when they found him. Maybe he could have fought his way free, gotten out of sight long enough to ditch the pin and blend. But that wasn’t his way. He didn’t hide. He was a Brute. He stood his ground and he stood by his friends, and he sure as hell didn’t hide in the crowd.

They beat the shit out of him and throw him in a cell, leaving him to staunch his bleeding with his uniform and to wait for a verdict that will be death one way or another. He’s not sure which it’ll be. It’s not like he was a regular sort of traitor. The Brute helped Jack Noir exile the Queen. Nobody would blink an eye if the King ordered his head taken.

But even before the wounds have clotted, he’s ushered back out of the cell and stuck on a shuttle with three dozen others. Nobody looks at each other, not even as the door shuts and the shuttle blasts off, heading for the portals. The Brute stands by a window and watches Derse fade, his head throbbing slightly as everything he’s ever known is left behind.


	12. Dame

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> A happy fic about Hearts Boxcars?

Her name is the Graceful Dancer and the first time Boxcars sees her, she’s slowly peeling her clothes off layer by layer, dancing to the Static Strut. It’s somewhere between her getting her skirt off and when she reveals those tassels on her breasts that he realizes she’s the hottest damn thing he’s seen in days.

After the show, she comes around to get tips. Boxcars slips her a fiver, just to watch her eyes light up. “Gosh big fella, that’s awful generous of you. You liked the show?”

“I liked you.” He grins and she laughs in a way that he knows is rehearsed, but he doesn’t mind. It’s still pretty, and right now, he could use something pretty, even if it is polished.

She goes around to get the rest of her tips and comes back to milk him for more, sliding in close to Boxcars and having a drink with him. GD has a tonic and gin, and she listens intently to Boxcar’s stories, laughing in all the right places. About half way through, the laugh changes, losing a little of it’s polish as she snorts and then promptly looks embarrassed. “Oh jeeze, sorry about that.”

“Nah, nah, don’t be. It’s cute.” He keeps his hands off of her, though he’d certainly like to pat her on the shoulder. “Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of with being who you really are.”

There’s something in his words that seems to set her off, though she holds her tongue. He can feel it in her words though, and the way they’re a little sharper, a little cleverer. She’s not just milking him for tips, she’s pushing him now.

The reason becomes clear when she reaches up to her head. She’s wearing a sparkly headdress, and she pulls it off, setting it down on the table. It becomes pretty clear why she wears it. There’s a crack running up her carapace, starting just above the eyebrow. It’s thick and ugly, and her eyes are hard when she looks at him. She’s waiting for the moment when he bullshits her and slips out the table, leaving her by herself.

Instead, he lets himself reach out, touching the groove in her light carapace. It’s rough and sharp, and he grins when it nearly draws a little blood. “Do yeh want to see my scars?”

She does. He takes off his shirt and she laughs when she he does, making heads turn in the club. He knows they can’t figure out why she finds it so funny, but Boxcars gets it. His thick fingers trace over the marks left from exile, from the Felt, and from any little bastard trying to prove himself. There’s a real smile on her face, wicked and sharp, but it makes her face twice as pretty as before.

He goes home with her to a little apartment in a shitty part of town. She’s got beads hanging from the ceiling and she’s unabashedly loud in bed. Boxcars likes that, and he likes that she’s not shy about telling him what she wants. It’s good, just what he needs after such a nasty break-up, after everything in his life had gone to shit.

The Dancer’s still asleep when he wakes up, curled in on herself. He presses his mouth over the scar on her head, giving it a soft kiss. She shifts in her sleep, curling tighter around herself. Somebody hurt her badly. That’s okay. Boxcars has always been pretty good with broken things.

When she does step out of her room, he knows she’s shocked to find him still here. He’s cracking eggs in a pan with one hand, chucking the shells in the garbage. “How do you like your eggs?”

GD stares at him and then smiles, sidling up to him in a ratty housecoat. “Scrambled.”

“Scrambled eggs coming right up.” He loops his arm over her shoulders and gets cooking.


	13. Swap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> One of the Felt accidentally changes sex temporarily (maybe they get sick and it messes up their hormones)

The last time he Swapped, Crowbar was sixteen years old and Bre-Ke had given him a month off of work and told him to get it out of his system. “Kid, everybody has to try it at least once,” He’d said, chewing on his cigar, “Do it now and get it over with so I know if I can count on you or not. I don’t need you deciding you’re a dame in three years so all my time was wasted.”

“I don’t need to try it out. I already know,” He’d protested, but in the end, Crowbar had given in and headed home to Swap.

It wasn’t exactly fun. The week of transition was pretty uncomfortable and awkward. His balance got thrown out as his hips broadened, and his breasts ended up being really tender and painful, and his face started shifting slightly, the grinding of bones waking him up at night. At the end of it, he found out that he was a curvy girl with a face that his mother charitably called ‘striking’. At least he had plenty of sisters to help him with his make-up and boost his looks up to something passable.

He’d lived his life as a girl for two weeks, trying out ‘her’ and ‘she’ in sentences, going out dancing and drinking, letting boys hit on him and staying up late with his sisters. It never felt right though. He found it nearly impossible to steer clear of Bre-Ke’s restaurant, always wanting to stroll in and ask what they were doing. But he didn’t. The last thing Crowbar wanted was them to see him like this, and remember Crowbar looking like this instead of like he usually did. He didn’t want them to see him as weak.

He did his two weeks, and soon as they were done, he Swapped back in a heartbeat. It was easier going the other way, like getting out of a too-hot bath instead of getting in. The curves melted and he scrubbed his face clean, until finally he looked in the mirror and saw everything in it’s proper place. It was a relief, and he promised himself he’d never do that again.

It was a promise that he broke approximation fourteen years later when he woke up in the Felt mansion and realized that things had shifted in the night, and that there were two tiny lumps of breast tissue forming where they had no right to be. He hadn’t chosen to Swap this time, his body had just gone ahead and started without him.

Crowbar did the only thing he could: he wrapped his chest up and squeezed into his pants (already tight from his now-wider hips) and did his best to pretend it wasn’t happening.


	14. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anonymous asked:  
> DROOG PICKLE INSPECTOR

Droog didn’t expect to find Pickle Inspector inside of his office. It was past midnight and the door was locked, which should have meant that PI was at home or out drinking. After all, that’s what sane people did.

PI was many things, including malnourished, dehydrated and clearly mentally ill. He pointed a hairpin at Droog, arms shaking from the strain. “W-what are you doing h-here?”

“You were hired to follow the Crew.” Droog glances at a number of glass bottles in the corner of the room, eyes sliding over it’s contents. It’s difficult to tell what they are, and he stops to give them a sniff while he keeps speaking to PI, “I came here to burn anything you found.” Some sort of liquor. “You’re dropping the case immediately.” Hot sauce. “If you attempt to follow us again-“

Droog recoils the moment he smells the last one. That’s also the moment PI drops the hairpin on the ground, and the machine gun promptly fires against the wall, the bullets narrowly missing Droog as they destroy the bottles. An unpleasant and foul-smelling slurry leaks over the floor, and touches Droog’s shoes.

He steps back, but not quickly enough. The shoes are damp. He can almost see the stain setting in. Droog carefully lifts his head, looking straight at PI’s sunken eyes. PI brings his hands to his mouth, the reality of the situation settling in. “O-oh.”

Droog draws his pool cue from his deck. Time to ensure this investigation never goes any further. And when that’s finished, Droog is going to burn his shoes and possibly this whole building to the ground. Only fire can cleanse this place now.


	15. Afternoons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Hearts/Clubs, pale shipping? If you please.

Sunday afternoons, when Slick’s sleeping off his hangover and Droog’s off doing the shopping, Boxcars and Deuce like to go down to the river. They’ve been doing it since they first stumbled across it, back before the city was more than just a thought in Slick’s head. It was where they camped out for days while Slick started to get his plans in order, and it was where they built the first version of the hideout, before the sewer system existed.

This place has really grown since then. There’s city on both sides of the river, and grass up on the banks where sand used to be. It’s gotten so you can sit down by the river and no matter which way you look, you can only see city. It’s nice, real nice.

Deuce spends a lot of his time hunting for flat stones and trying to skip them on the river surface. He’s pretty shit at it, even after years of practice, but he likes it. Boxcars usually watches, occasionally breaking the comfortable silence with a few words, usually “there ya’ go” or “you’re spinning again, gotta watch that”.

Maybe there are better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon than down at the river with Deuce, but Boxcars can’t think of one off the top of his head. He likes spending time with Deuce. He’s a good friend, maybe not the smartest fellow, but he makes up for it by being loyal and fun.

When he runs out of rocks, something that happens more and more often these days, he sits down beside Boxcars and plants his hands in the grass, leaning back against them. “I’m glad we became friends. This city is better than Derse.”

“Me too Deuce.” Boxcars always pats him on the back about a gently as he can, tilting his hat over his eyes so he can have a nap. “Yer a real friend.”

And before he falls asleep, he always hears Deuce proudly say, “Yes, I am.”


	16. Bodice-Ripper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> hearts boxcars enjoying a trashy, bodice-ripperiffic romance novel, possibly with a friend

Boxcars keeps his novels on a shelf in his room, proudly displayed for all to see. He doesn’t give a fuck if the fellas know he has them. What sorta man would be ashamed of enjoying a good romance novel?

You can always tell his favorites because they’re the ones with the spine crumpled like an accordion, and front covers held together with packing tape. There are little pieces of torn paper tucked in the tops of most of the books, marking places where he last stopped rereading. It’s natural for him to pick them up, go straight to the makeshift bookmark, and start from there instead.

It’s not uncommon to find him sprawled on his bed with a couple of beers and a book. He likes reading in his downtime, getting lost in epics about long lost lovers and growing attraction between two close friends who can no longer deny it. And it’s not too uncommon to find Slick sprawled in a nearby chair, using Boxcar’s collection as a library.

“This is fucking stupid,” He gripes, flipping through one of Boxcar’s newer acquisitions, “Who the fuck would be dumb enough to sell their watch to buy glasses for somebody they just met?”

“Shut up boss, it’s fucking touching,” Boxcars replies, flipping a page in his own book, getting ever closer to his favourite part (which is the bit where the Wordsmith realizes that the Doorman was deeply, madly in love with her, and that she was about to be exiled forever if the Wordsmith didn’t reach him in time).

“It’s fucking stupid,” Slick grumbles but goes back to reading.


	17. Brawl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hronomaly asked:  
> Could you write The Midnight Crew in a bar room brawl?

The only problem with drinking as a Crew is that it’s a coin toss if they’ll make it out of the bar without starting a fucking fight. Tonight the coin came up heads and now Slick’s busy beating the shit out of some asshole twice his size.

Normally, that might be something to worry about, but not when he’s got the Crew with him. They’re like a well oiled machine by this point. Droog’s got his back, the solid sound of wood smashing into carapace a steady reminder that he’s still there. He can feel splatters of blood now and again. Droog must be real pissed if he’s willing to hit hard enough to get blood on his suit.

Boxcars is easy to spot, fighting off a pack of men in the corner. He’s got the pool table over his head, bellowing as he throws it through the crowd, knocking over people like errant pins at the world’s shittiest bowling alley. The big guy can hold his own, but Slick still keeps an eye on him, just in case it gets too hot over there.

And speaking of hot, a molotov flies through the air, smashing against a table and bursting into flames. Deuce knows better than to get in the middle of fighting any of these big bastards. He always motors it to the bar, and within five minutes, he’s got himself armed with bombs made with cheap gin and strips of torn up shirt.

Deuce is usually when the tables really turn, and that’s exactly what they start doing. The group of angry pissed off Prospitans decides maybe they should get the fuck out of the Crew’s way, and there’s a stampede of cowards to reach the door. Not all of ‘em make it, easily felled by some combination of Boxcar’s fists, Droog’s poolcue or the knives that Slick starts double-fisting as soon as he’s able.

Half the bar is in flames, which means that it’s high time that they get the fuck out too. Boxcars grabs Deuce from behind the bar, setting him up on his shoulders and Droog checks his reflection to see how bad the damage is. Slick just makes a point of stomping straight down on the face of one of the fucks that’s still alive and conscious before leading his crew out of the bar.

That won’t be the last time they fight. But it will be the last time some smartass asks Slick if he liked being the Queen’s lapdog.


	18. Punny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Slick/Sleuth please

Spades Slick is going to kill Problem Sleuth. But first, he needs to find something to kill that son of a bitch with because Sleuth broke all of Slick’s knives in various attempts to escape this locked room.

How somebody locks himself into his room is a mystery Slick will never understand. Locked out, sure, that makes sense. Locked in? How the fuck do you even do that?

There’s nowhere to sit because the dumb bastard pulled the chair seat off to get a scrap of paper that opened a fucking fake safe. The rest of his desk was turned into the shittiest fort Slick has ever seen, and an hour ago, Sleuth drank the last of that awful sugary shit he calls liquor and crammed himself inside, claiming he would fix it.

All he’s done is mumble incoherently and drool a lot. Slick really wants to kill Sleuth, but there’s nothing in this place sharp enough to really do the damage Slick needs. Even Sleuth’s fucking revolver is empty.

He’s trying to figure out why part of the room smells like piss when Sleuth finally staggers out of the fort, fumbling through his inventory and producing a pot of coffee that he sucks down.

“So? What the fuck did that accomplish?” Slick wants an answer.

“Door’s open.” Sleuth has no right to look so proud. But… if he got that door open… Slick tries it. It’s still locked. Sleuth stares at it with confusion, and then his eyes go big. “Wait, no, wrong door.” He heads over to the wall that smells like piss and calls out through the eyeholes. “Hey Ace! Try your door!”

Slick picks up the coffee pot and smashes it against the fort, getting coffee and jagged glass everywhere. There’s still enough hanging around the rim to make a weapon. Slick grins and glances up at Sleuth. “Hey asshole, glass to- wait, fuck, no. Hey, this really- no, shit!”

“What?” Sleuth glances back at Slick. His eyes touch on the broken coffee pot, then up at Slick. A grin comes over his face. “Hey, hate to break it to you, but you’re being a real glasshole.”

There are very few things that Slick can forgive a man for. Stealing his fucking pun is not one of them. Slick drops the pot and lunges at Sleuth. When he’s finished killing him, he’s going to use his fucking body as a battering ram and knock that door down.

And then maybe he’s going to go next door and kill Ace Dick, not because he did anything, but just because he’s a convenient coffinstuffer.


	19. Tails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nickie asked:  
> Omg I wanna give you a prompt! Uuum how about Droog/Stitch! What if Droog and Stitch got in a fight because Stitch made him a suit and used the wrong kind of cuff of something dumb like that and Droog is being a bitch about fashion O:

Stitch and Droog fight a lot, but that’s just part of their jobs. When they face down outside the bedroom or boutique, they bring their all. Stitch has new scars thanks to that pool cue and submachine gun of Droog’s, and Droog’s got his own marks, places where his shell hasn’t completely grown back together.

That being said, they usually don’t fight when they’re together. So this is a first for them, and it’s not exactly a pleasant one.

“This has a tail coat,” Droog holds up his jacket, speaking in that short clipped way that says he’s seriously considering lodging his pool cue in Stitch’s head.

“Of course it’s got a tail coat, evening wear usually does,” Stitch growls back. He’s been making clothes since he was a teenager, so he thinks he knows what he’s doing better than some young punk who only pays attention to recent fashion trends.

“Tails are out of style.” Flat white eyes are fixed on Stitch, but they’re not making him back down, no matter how Droog pushes. “A short tuxedo-“

“-will go out of style in another three years. This’ll do you for at least three decades.” He keeps his feet dug in. “And so what if the short jacket’s in style. It looks sloppy. You might as well wear a suit jacket.”

“I don’t want a jacket that lasts three decades. I want a jacket that’s fashionable today.” Droog drops it on the ground and Stitch narrows his eyes. “You’re going to make a new jacket, without tails.”

“The hell I am. Pick that up.” Stitch flicks his eyes down at the coat. When Droog makes no move to pick it up, he repeats himself, sounding a lot less calm. “Pick that up.”

“Short tuxedo. Silk lining, crimson. Narrow lapels,” Droog snaps off his request instead of reaching for the coat. Both men stare balefully at one another, each refusing to back down.

Their stand off comes to an unexpected end when the sound of gunshots harkens the entrance of the Midnight Crew into the Felt Mansion to ‘save’ Droog. “This ain’t over,” Stitch tells Droog as he gets his gun. Droog produces his own weapons. “We’re sorting this later.”

Yes, we certainly will.” Droog tosses the jacket away from him. And then he hits Stitch with the cuestick, and that’s the last of that discussion.


	20. Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whaoanon asked:  
> PROMPTS HUH. UM okay okay what about. What about so the Crew is in Exile and they're all together right, what happens the first time they stumble upon a decent amount of water. Like a stream/river/a tiny pond/the ocean??? Or even just the first time it rains maybe...rain is always cool. Would it have ever rained on Derse even???

The first time it rains, it scares the hell out of Curious Dawdler. It’s just another day in the desert, one more day in the long endless trudge forward in the shifting technicolor sands. The only thing the Hapless Brigand thinks when the clouds start gathering is how nice it will be to have a break from that endless sunlight.

When the first fat waterdrops fall from the sky, they all stop in their tracks and look straight up to see where it’s coming from. Brigand blinks as another raindrop smacks him right between the eyes. It takes him a moment to realize what’s going on. It’s rain.

“What the fuck is this?” Scurrilous Straggler wipes at the drops on his head, eyes focused up on the clouds above as if they’ll come low enough for him to stick a knife in. “DD-“

“It’s rain.” Brigand answers it before the rest can. It’s slowly starting to ramp up. “We should find some shelter.”

“I’d rather not. This is the first chance we’ve had to get clean in months.” The Desolate Deserter stays rooted to the spot, face upturned as the rain comes down much faster.

Dawdler opens his mouth, clearly trying to drink whatever falls into his mouth. Brute frowns, feeling uneasy. He knows they need to find shelter, but he can’t remember exactly why…

The reason comes with a flash of light and a booming sound that makes them all stagger back with shock. CD grabs onto DD’s legs, screaming with terror. SS gets his fists up and even HB does the same without thinking, ready to punch a cloud.

“What the fuck was that?” Straggler demands, glancing around.

“It’s-“ He can’t remember what it’s called. “It’s something bad. We have to find shelter.”

The Deserter picks up the hysterical Dawdler. “Sooner would be better.”

“Fucking rain.” SS mutters and they quickly head for a series of rocks just in the distance, getting soaked to the bone by the rain and flinching each time the light and sound return.


	21. Stallion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> beesmygodtier: asked:  
> coz will you write me a story of Boxcars taking care of a horse??

The first time Boxcars got into the corral with the stallion, Slick had expected him to die. That fucking horse had been more trouble than it was worth, and as soon as it reared up, Slick figured Boxcars would get a hoof straight to the face and a nasty trampling and that would be all she fucking wrote. It didn’t happen like though. Boxcars stood his ground, and the horse reared and screamed but it didn’t come down on him. It didn’t touch Boxcars at all, darting around him for the most part. Boxcars kept trying to whisper into it’s ear but the horse wasn’t having any of that shit.

“What’d you think?” He asked Slick when he got out.

Slick just sneered. “I think you’re fucking lucky, that’s what.”

“If you say so boss.” Boxcars just shrugged and headed on up to the house.

The second time Boxcars got into the corral with the stallion, it really did try to kill him. It was as Boxcars was trying to put that fucking halter on the horse so he could lead him around. The stallion was a fucking hard-assed son of a bitch and his response to that had been an attempt at knocked Boxcars over so he could cave that head in. Instead, Boxcars had lifted the horse up over his head and held the panicked beast there until it stopped fighting and let him put the halter on.

“What do you think?” Boxcars nodded to the now docile stallion who was busy trying to pull the halter off by hooking it on a post.

Slick just sneered. “You’re a dumbshit. If you get fucking killed, I’m not burying your dumb ass.”

“If you say so boss.” Boxcars gave Slick a friendly pat on the back.

The third time Boxcars got into the corral, he broke that horse like nobody had ever broken a horse before. Slick watched dumbfounded as the nastiest piece of shit stallion he’d ever seen in his whole fucking life became the tamest beast he’d ever seen in less than two hours. It was like some sort of miracle. Boxcars stripped his shirt off partway through and rode that horse until he was glistening with sweat.

“What do you think?” Boxcars gives Slick a look that could be called simmering.

Slick just sneered. “How about you shut the fuck up and take me where I’m standing?”

“If you say so boss.” And he did.


	22. Fragile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the sad-off with Shad.

Koro lives two days, four hours, and fifteen minutes. Snowman is holding her daughter in her arms when the baby draws one last strained breath and then breathes no more. She waits for another breath, that same laboured sound she’s grown uncomfortably familiar with, but it never comes.

Snowman knew this moment was coming. She knew it the moment after that last push when her baby never cried out, when Stitch held the green and black infant in his hands like she might break apart, when she was quickly whisked away to the boutique for him to treat. Stitch had never made an effigy so fast, but all the effigies in the world couldn’t fix what nature had never given in the first place.

Koro fought to live, but the odds were against her from the start; a weak heart, too-small lungs, skin that crumbles at the slightest touch. Snowman’s finger hovers over the small mouth, waiting to feel another breath. Dark green flakes collect on her trembling carapace as carefully touches those small lips.

She’s still waiting for that breath that never comes, still waiting desperately to hear that one delayed gasp. Pale green eyes stare up at Snowman. She would close them, but she’s afraid that the baby’s eyelids will crumple to dust the moment she touches them. Snowman can’t stand the tough of harming Koro any more, even if she can’t feel it right now, even if she’ll never feel anything again.

Crowbar is asleep when their first and only child quietly dies. He’s been awake for sixty odd hours, staying up with their daughter while Snowman stole a few hours of sleep here and there. She woke at one point to find him talking to her, as if she could understand his words and that the would convince her to stay with them even as her body failed.

“Your grandmother is named Koro too. She’s the strongest woman I’ve ever known, besides your mother,” He cradled her carefully on his chest, holding her like the most delicate and precious thing in the world. “She raised seven children all by herself. I helped her when I could, though she was the one who got through the hard times alone, who always made sure my sisters were taken care of. I know you’re as strong as her. I know you can make her proud. And if you need me to help you, I’m right here. I won’t be going anywhere, I promise.” He had kissed her on the top of her head and closed his eyes, fighting back the tears they’d both been battling with all day.

There’s a little rag doll in his hands, one of two that he made before Koro was born. The little girl is held tight in his fist, her green button eyes staring up at the ceiling. The doll is crude, made with whatever little skill Crowbar has based on the memories of his sister’s dolls. She has a tail that sticks out the back of her blue dress and a bright cheerful smile. It looks nothing like Koro, nothing at all like the fragile thing lying heartbreakingly still against Snowman’s chest.

Koro is dead and Crowbar is still sleeping, dark black circles under his eyes from a lack of sleep. Snowman knows she should wake him up. She should tell him that they aren’t parents any more. He had been so excited, more excited then she could have ever imagined. Late at night, while his hand rested carefully on her swelling belly, he’d told her all about the things he was going to teach their child. She should wake him up and tell that the only thing he’s going to do with his daughter is bury her in the ground.

Her hand reaches out, hovering over his arm. One touch is all it will take to wake him up, and to kill whatever hope he had left. One touch is all it will take to destroy the remains of the only good thing they ever made.


	23. Regrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the sad-off with Shad.

Every day, WV visits her. He has to take the long route home to do that, but he doesn’t mind. WV would rather spend the time with her than alone in his house.

He stops by the florists to get a bouquet of flowers. The Savvy Florist already has his flowers ready and waiting. She knows by now what he likes to give PM: hyacinths, daffodils, poppies. It’s bright and cheerful, the sort of bold colours that spring to mind when he thinks of PM.

Nobody bothers him while he walks. Everyone knows where he’s going. He’s been going there for years now. As long as he can walk, he’ll go. And even if he can’t walk, as long as his arms can drag him along the ground, he’ll go to her. WV will go to her until the day he dies.

The gate is open and he lets himself in, making sure to shut it behind him. It’s a quiet day, no one but him wandering the rolling green hills and the overgrown paths. WV holds his flowers close as he finds his way to the back, and to the place where PM is waiting.

The graves on either side of her have grown over, but not hers. WV has made sure to keep hers trimmed and clean. Last week’s flowers are still there, withered and dead, and he carefully draws them off her grave, replacing them with the bouquet in his hands. He touches her gravestone, marking out her name, and cleaning away the little grass attempting to creep up on it.

Her stone is two years old, the marble still white and fresh looking. He had it replaced when her name had faded from her old stone, replaced with the best he could buy. The gravestones around her are cracked and faded, their writing worn away with time. No one comes to visit her companions anymore. Maybe their loved ones have moved on or maybe they’re here too, dead and buried and reunited forever.

WV used to speak to her, in the beginning. He would tell her about things, about her mail route, about her friends, his friends, the city, and all the things he knew she’d want to know about. These days, he doesn’t say much. It’s been years. All their friends are gone. He could tell her the news, but she would recognize any of the names. WV doesn’t even have a job worth telling her about anymore. They threw him out of office twenty years ago. These days, he works at the post office, sorting mail. It makes him feel less alone when he’s surrounded by packages. It makes him feel like she’s still with him instead of stuck out here.

He carefully lies on the grass beside her, his body creaking and cracking as he settles down. WV lays his head on the grass and looks over at her grave, the subtle depression of the dirt marking where she lies six feet down. He never lay beside her like this in life, never even had the courage to ask her if she might feel the same way about him as he did about her. It wasn’t until he identified her body at the morgue that he realized that he didn’t even know if they’d ever really been friends. It was too late to ask that question either. It was too late for a lot of things.

WV rests a hand on the depression, lying it where her stomach might be. He closes his eyes and tries hard to remember the smell of her perfume, the way she would smile at a funny joke, the sound of her voice. But time has taken those memories away one by one, and he finds himself struggling to even remember what she looked like at all. It won’t be long before she’s gone entirely, until he won’t even be able to remember why he comes to this grave at all.

He hopes he’s dead before that day comes. He hopes he’s dead and buried before he ever forgets how much he loves her.

WV lays beside her grave for as long as he can stand it, until the sun begins to set, and then he slowly picks himself up off the ground. He presses a kiss to her gravestone, hot tears rolling down his cheeks and landing on the marble.

“I’m sorry,” He tells her, just as he’s told her ever single night since the day he saw her body, saw what Spades Slick had done to her, all because WV had stood up to him. WV is the reason PM is dead, and he will never, ever forgive himself for that. “I’m so sorry PM.”

It’s a long walk back to his empty house, to his lonely life.


	24. Pat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:   
> One of the Felt tries to grope Snowman and learns why that's a bad idea.

Stitch is in his boutique when he hears the screaming. His eyes don’t swing to the door, but over to the effigies hanging on the walls. He’s still getting used to all this time bullshit, but he’s at least gotten this part down. Even before he’s able to identify the screaming, he figures out that it must be Fin, since his is the effigy that’s currently got a hole through his stomach.

He starts stitching it up, but as soon as he gets a few stitches in, the damn thing unravels them. Nothing’s sticking, and Stitch gives up, grabbing his med kit and his gun, and heading into the mansion proper. It’s easy to track Fin down, since all Stitch has to do is follow the sound of screaming.

There’s quite a crowd by the time he get there. Nobody else has their weapons out and the Crew’s nowhere in sight, so it can’t be those assholes. He muscles his way in beside Crowbar. “What the hell’s going on here?”

What’s going on is that Fin is pinned to the wall with Snowman’s lance. Stitch mind takes over, evaluating how much damage has been done. It’s not bad actually. She’s missed the vital organs and his spine, though she might have ruptured his bladder, which might explain the smell of piss, but not necessarily. Snowman’s standing nearby, a cigarette in her mouth and her hand resting on the handle of the lance. As Fin stops screaming in order to breathe, she puts her weight on it and starts it up again.

He turns to Crowbar. “Why aren’t you stepping in?”

“Fin grabbed her ass using his time powers and figured she wouldn’t find out.” Crowbar’s trying, and failing, at keeping a straight face. “She did.”

“You fucking dumbass.” Stitch says to Fin, who just moans in pain, clutching at the lance. “Snowman, I can’t put him back together when you’ve got that lance in him. You need to take it out.”

“Of course.” She twitches her fingers, and the cigarette holder is in her hand again, covered in blood.

“Hey.” Trace elbows Crowbar in the side. “Are you going to tell her not to do that?”

“The way I see it, if nobody trying to feel her up, that’s not going to happen again, is it?” He glances around the crowd. A few of them are nodding, but not all of them. Crowbar raises his voice. “Is it?”

There’s a mumble of “right”s and “yes”s, and maybe a little grumbling. Stitch kneels down, taking a good look at the wound. At least it isn’t ragged. And it looks like she did miss his bladder with her lance, so Stitch doesn’t have too much internal damage to worry about. “Crowbar, Trace, get down here and pick him up. I need him in my boutique. And the rest of you vultures get out of here.”

They disperse, Trace, Fin and Crowbar heading for the boutique, the rest to other parts of the Mansion. Snowman lingers, walking up to Stitch and slipping her hand into his jacket pocket, pulling out the handkerchief in there. “Do you mind?”

“Go for it.” He watches her clean the blood off her cigarette holder and tuck it back into her sleep. “I appreciate you not killing him.”

“Of course. We are a team after all. I have no intentions of killing him.” She offers the handkerchief back and he shakes his head. It disappears into one of her pockets, along with the holder. “But if he tries it again, I’m aiming lower.”

“I’ll tell ‘im you said that.” Stitch gives her a nod, and heads off to the boutique to sew him up before he can cause any more trouble.


	25. Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:   
> More of Deuce using Boxcars' stomach as a bed?

It started in exile. Boxcars can’t even remember exactly when he started noticing it. They all slept against each other in the desert. It was the only way to keep warm. But at some point, Deuce started sleeping on his stomach. And then he just never stopped it.

They’ve been out of the desert for years, decades even. Deuce has his own room with a perfectly good bed that he sleeps in sometimes. Boxcars has his own room as well, and an apartment across town that he brings women back to when he’s planning on spending a little quality time with them.

But more often than not, if he’s sleeping back in the hideout, he wakes up with Deuce climbing up on top of him, or with Deuce already sleeping on his stomach. It’s gotten to a point where Boxcars doesn’t feel right sleeping on his back if Deuce doesn’t show up to join him.

It wouldn’t be too hard to discourage him. Boxcars could just lock his door at night for a couple of months and Deuce would eventually quit trying to come in. Sure, Deuce would be upset, but he’d get over it, just like how he gets over everything. But Boxcars never does. Hell, he leaves a step-stool at the end of the bed to make it easier for Deuce to get up.

He doesn’t mind Deuce sleeping on his stomach. And there’s a part of him - the part that was alone in the desert before he met up with the fellas again - that likes having a reminder that he’s not alone anymore. He found his Crew. Ain’t nothing going to take them away from him.


	26. Smoke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derples asked: Droog smoking from Snowman's cigarette holder. I guess you could put droog/snowman somewhere in there?

Droog enjoys his cigarettes, but not the smoke. This makes things rather tricky when he attempts to indulge himself without stinking up his clothes, especially when he’s out on the town with someone that he plans on impressing, and then undressing when the evening has concluded. 

The only solution he’s found is to slip outside to smoke and turn so the wind’s at his back. Even then, that’s not quite enough. Tonight, as he slips out the side door and onto the restaurant patio, he finds he’s not exactly alone. 

Snowman looks good, a fur stole around her shoulders and a sleek violet dress hugging all her curves. Not for the first time, Droog feels a quiet pang of resentment that she has a personal tailor. They eye each other up for a few seconds and then relax. Slick’s not around, there’s no need to be at each other’s throats. She’s just finishing up a cigarette; Coffin Nails, if he’s smelling them right. 

He slips out his own pack - Silks - and places one in his mouth. Droog pauses before he lights it. He smells the smoke from her cigarette, but he also smells her perfume. His eye slide over the holder, and on impulse, he steps in behind her, smelling Snowman. She goes still, and her hand touches the pistol undoubtedly lurking under her dress, strapped to her thigh. Droog is careful, not moving too fast as his nose moves down the length of her neck and over her shoulder. “You don’t smell like smoke.” 

“That’s what the holder’s for.” Her voice is slightly tense... but also slightly playful. He sets a hand on her hip, feeling how warm she is. Droog has someone inside. So does she. But she doesn’t brush his hand off her hip. Instead, she pulls the holder out of her mouth, plucking the cigarette from the end, and offers it to him. “Here. Try it.” 

Droog takes it and slips it into his mouth. She fits his cigarette in place and lights it, quite the role reversal for them. His hand stays curved around her hip, stroking the warm silk. The holder is strange, but not uncomfortable. He can taste her lipstick, and the martinis she’s been drinking. “I see the appeal.” 

“So do I.” She gives him a wicked little smile, and Droog seriously reconsiders going back inside. 


	27. All The Pretty Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> askteddyparanoiacore asked: Oh gee, it took me forever to find your Tumblr after I read your multiple fictions on Archive. I wasn't sure if you were up to requests at the moment, but if you are (and i know this pairing might be a bit odd, but) could you write some Boxcar/Deuce?

A year of horses is hell, but he survives it. He’s Boxcars, he can survive anything. He just keeps thinking about what’s waiting for him on the other side of the endless neighing and the smell of dust. 

A year of horses is hell, but he makes it out alive. Seeing the hideout empty? That damn near kills him. When he shuffles aside the manhole cover and shouts down, and doesn’t get any response back, he thinks that maybe they’re out. But they aren’t. Droog and Deuce’s stuff is gone and his and Slick’s have been packed into boxes. The whole place smells of mothballs and stale air, and Boxcars is left standing in Deuce’s bedroom, looking at the empty closet.

A year of horses is hell and an empty hideout is a endless nightmare, but he carries on because he’s Boxcars and that’s what he does. The Felt’s been reduced down to three of ‘em - the shrimp, the tank and the bitch. They don’t seem to be doing much these days. Lots of little gangs rose up while Boxcars was gone, and most of ‘em are nasty little fucks. They give him some mild respect, but it’s pretty clear they’ll cut him if they think he’s about to step in on their territory. He pulls a few heists by himself, but it just ain’t the same, and it’s too dangerous. Boxcars decides to throw in the towel when he has to pick a bullet out of his shoulder all by himself. He keeps expecting Deuce to come in the room and to have a freak-out over Boxcars, that shrill voice he knows so well echoing in his ears even when he hasn’t heard it in well over a year now. But Deuce never does, and Boxcars gives up crime. It just ain’t worth it. 

A year of horses is hell, and another year living alone damn nearly kills him, and then he’s out shopping one day when he hears Deuce’s voice. He thinks he’s just imagining it again, but the voice gets louder, and as he turns around, his eyes snap to the floor as a small black figure rushes towards him. Boxcars knows who it is just from a glance and he scoops him up, pulling him tight to his chest. Deuce is damn near crying, voice warbling with panic and relief and anger all at once. He has a million questions to ask, like why weren’t they in the hideout and what the hell happened, and where’s Droog and Slick, and why the fuck didn’t you wait- but they all just die in his throat as he holds Deuce close. 

“Missed ya too.” Boxcars assures Deuce, holding the little squirt as tight as he dares. He spots Droog, looking shellshocked with a can of peas in his hands, and heads over toward him, Deuce still tucked carefully against his chest.


	28. Day Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Boxcars' first day out of the cloning chambers. He gets incredibly lost in the many twists and turns of Derse's city.

He gives up on finding his way back after eight hours. The Brute is tired and thirsty, and everywhere looks the same, so he just throws in the towel and finds somewhere to rest.

HB ends up sitting on the side of a fountain, drinking out of it with the sort of shamelessness that comes when you’re damn near dying of thirst. There’s nobody in this part of the city yet. Maybe nobody’s been assigned to these apartment buildings and the thousands of little rooms that will be somebody’s home. 

He scoops up another cupped handful of water and slurps it down, the cold water making his mouth and throat feel better. HB’s tempted to just sit down in the water, maybe just lay there and float for a while. It was only this morning when he woke up, floating in the cloning tube for a few moments before the liquid all drained away and he was left with his palms pressed against the glass walls, his legs still trembling a little with the effort of supporting his own body. 

There are instructions in his head, a list of things that he needs to do. He knows he should be doing them right now. He should set an eye on the main towers and walks towards them until he reaches them, or until he can’t walk anymore. But another part of him, a part that’s soothing to listen to and completely at odds with every other pat of his body, is telling him to just keep sitting here, and to not worry about any of this. 

HB gives into the little part of his mind, sticking his feet into the water and sighing with relief. Soon, he’ll stand up and do what he’s meant to do, and he’ll ignore the little voice in his mind and hear only the orders given to him by his superiors. 

But for just this moment, he listens, and lets himself be lost for a little while. 


	29. Bet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Sawbuck bets that he can go a whole day without getting hurt, Itchy bets that he can go a day without drinking any coffee. The winner fucks the loser. Itchy loses the bet.

It was easy to find Itchy. He was the only one in the hallway, dressed in only a pair of shorts and doing stretches. Crowbar made a face and cautiously approached him. “Itchy? We need to talk?”

“In a bit. I lost my bet with Sawbuck. It’s a real fucking shame, let me tell you. Gotta let him fuck me and everything.” He stretched and Crowbar did his best to not look at Itchy as he lunged about. 

“Yeah, that’s what we need to talk about.” Crowbar braced himself for a thoroughly unpleasant conversation. “You need to stop making bets with the Felt. You’re making them uncomfortable.” 

“What? Hey, if anyone’s uncomfortable, it’s me! I’m the one who always loses!” Itchy dropped down onto his back and Crowbar had to actually break eye-contact to keep from accidentally seeing anything as Itchy kept flailing his legs around in what was probably a stretch. “You know how uncomfortable it is to know you’ve got to let some dude put it in your ass?” 

“That’s the end result of every bet you make. You’ve already lost four bets this week alone, and you’re really creeping people out.” He could just see Itchy’s shoes coming into the bottom of his vision. “Nobody wants to go through with this.”

“Hey, a bet’s a bet! If I won, I’d go through with it! They’re just being a bunch of fucking welshers.” Itchy is still at it. He’s daring Crowbar to look down at him at this point. “But I’m going to hold it to them! They can’t just welsh out on me!”

“Itchy, nobody wants to fuck you.” Crowbar finally comes out and says it.

Of course Itchy’s on his feet in half a second, right up in Crowbar’s space. “Hey, you want to bet? You want to bet? I bet if I can get one of them to fuck me, then I’ll fuck you. And if I lose-“

“No.” Crowbar shakes his head, but it’s no use. “No!” 

“-then you have-“

“No!”

“-to fuck me.” 

“Itchy this is your last warning. If you don’t stop making these bets-” Crowbar’s attempts to sound threatening and stern are wasted on Itchy, who just starts limbering up again. “Fuck it, Scratch can deal with you.”

“Welsher!” Itchy snaps the elastic on his shorts and looks up eagerly at Crowbar. “Do you think he’s got any junk?”

Crowbar throws his arms up in the air and leaves before Itchy can make any more insane bets.


	30. Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Hearts Boxcars goes on a date with a classy dame. Itchy decides he's gonna be a little shit and ruin Boxcars' date. Doesn't end well for Itchy.

For a guy with superspeed, Itchy isn’t too fucking quick on the uptake. All it takes it a leg out at the right time, and then Itchy’s head is smashed in through the plaster wall and he’s fighting to yank it out. 

The Classy Alto clasps a hand over her mouth in horror. “Oh my! Boxcars!” 

“Don’t you worry none about this.” He plants a kiss on her head and heads over to grab Itchy before the little bastard can take off again and start kicking up wind. “I’ll be right back.” 

He’s not right back. She’s finished desert by the time Boxcars heads back down, and he’s still wiping his knuckles clean of blood. CA’s face gets all concerned, laying her little hands on his with a sad tsking sound. “Oh your poor hands. And you’ve missed dinner while dealing with that miscreant.” 

“Did you eat something nice?” She nods and he just smiles. “Then it’s fine. I ain’t all that hungry anyway.” 

“Well… you could come back to my place. I could make you something nice.” CA offers, being about as coy as she can considering what she’s asking. 

“Yeah? Well, maaaaybe I’m a little peckish.” He throws down some cash to cover the meal and they head out. Meanwhile, Itchy slowly bleeds out on the rooftop, waiting for his teammates to hurry up and get him out of here, and to figure out a way to get him out of the iron bars he’s tied him up inside.


	31. Doc

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Random suggestion: Stitch/Doc Scratch.

It was hard getting out of the habit of being called ‘Doc’. Since Stitch first started sewing up mobsters, Doc had been an unofficial second name. There were enough of his patients who never knew him by anything other than ‘Doc’, kids with gutwounds who bled out all over the table and screamed for their mothers while he put them back together, men with money who put the money on the front counter so they didn’t have to touch his bloody hands. 

Going from that to being just Stitch was a little hard to deal with. Every time he heard Doc, his head went up, expecting to see somebody asking him if he could preform some new miracle. ‘course, his miracles weren’t really miracles, just skill and luck. Doc Scratch, there was a guy who could do miracles, the real kind where shit happened at the snap of a finger. 

Once, while he was putting the effigies back together, someone squawked for Doc over the radio, and just as he reached for it, Doc Scratch came in with a flash of green. He picked up the radio. “Look directly to your right.” 

“Oh, shit, there it is. Thanks Doc.” Fin signed off and Stitch grunted with annoyance, putting Doze’s stuffing back on the inside. 

“You’ll grow used to not being Doc in time.” Scratch told him in that same measured tone of voice he used for everything, even emergencies. 

“Sure. It’s not like I’ve had that nickname for twenty years.” Stitch rolled his eyes, glancing at the other effigies. Shit, Trace has a big slash across the belly too. He makes sure Doze isn’t about to burst open and quickly wheels over to the other effigy. 

Scratch chuckled in his usual off putting way. “Twenty years. Yes, that would seem like a long time to you. But I was Doc long before you were, and the name has stuck. As I said, you’ll soon get used to it.”

“How about you let me get used to sewing these idiots up first, and then we’ll argue about whose name it is?” Stitch snaps back, and Scratch just laughs. He gets back to fixing up Trace, grumbling under his breath. Pompous asshole. 

“Of course.” Scratch has no face, so he can’t smile, but Stitch knows for sure that if he did, there would be one of those tight-lipped smug smiles there. 

“Doc!” The radio squeals again, and as Scratch picks it up, Stitch sticks his needle into Trace a little rougher than he should.


	32. Present

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ciborgmatchsticks-deactivated20 asked: Coz can I have a fic where Matchsticks dresses up as Santa and appears at all the good little carapace kids fireplaces and gives them loot from heists in secret from the rest of the felt. Then he's surprised to appear in Deuce's room and gives him a present too.

“Ho! Ho! Ho-what?” Matchstick’s cheerful greeting of seasonal cheer came to a quick end when he found himself not standing in the living room of some adorable kid with big eyes, but in what was clearly Deuce’s room. 

Even if Matchsticks had never seen Deuce’s room before, he would know where he was because nobody but Deuce would have this many explosives just lying around all over the place. Normal people didn’t leave dynamite lying on their desk, or C4 in little stacked bricks on the floor like blocks, or blasting caps in their bed. 

Deuce sat up, caps sliding off of him and onto the floor, and rubbed his eyes. “Who’s there?”

“Shiiit.” Matchsticks muttered. Well, he was here and Deuce was looking at him. “Uh. Ho ho ho! it’s Santa with a gift for you! Have you been a good little boy?”

“A present?!” Deuce shot out of bed, skidding to a halt right in front of Matchsticks. “I’ve been very good! Droog always says I’m good!” 

“Ho! ho! That’s good!” He digs in his sack for something to pawn off on Deuce. After a moment, his hand settles on something soft. He pulls it out and offers it to Deuce. “There you go!”

Deuce’s eyes go big with wonder. “oh my gosh!! Oh gosh thank you!” He hugs Matchstick’s leg, and it takes everything he has not to kick Deuce off of him. Deuce lets go after a moment, taking his gift and holding it close. “This is just what I wanted!” 

“Well that’s good! I have to go now! Santa says you should be a good boy more often! and don’t play with explosives!” He turns around and realizes that he didn’t come out through a fireplace, but through an actual fire burning away on the floor. Matchsticks glances back at Deuce, who’s too pleased to even notice, and quickly makes his get-away.

He pops out in the Felt mansion, breathing a sigh of relief. That sure as hell wasn’t what he was expecting. The calming tick of the clocks makes him feel good, and he composes himself before jumping through again. 

This next fire spits him out of a warehouse boiler. Well that’s no good. He turns around to go back in when he realizes he can still hear ticking. He glances down and discovers that Deuce has also attached a present to his leg: an explosive with a watch for a timer. “Fuck!!” 

Deuce does not hear his own present explode, even though the warehouse is quite close to the hideout. He’s already back in bed, sound asleep, holding on tightly to his brand new hat. 


	33. Pipes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Itchy x Die?

“Why are you all fucking skin and bones asshole?” Itchy shoved Die’s knee out of his side, trying to find a comfortable position on the bed.”You skinny motherfucker, stop poking me!” 

“I’m skinny?” Die looks positively offended, which is remarkable because nobody in his position is allowed to look that fucking offended. “Look at you!”

“What about me? I’m a fucking manly specimen!” Itchy flexes, showing off his muscles. “Wait, do you hear the water?”

“What?” Die stops, glancing around. “What water?”

“The water running through these pipes!” Itchy flexes again. Die promptly shoves him off the bed, puts his pants back on and sulks out.


	34. An Exception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derples asked: Droog/Deuce and Slick calling out Droog for it.

It’s a little after dark when the the Scurrilous Straggler gets up off the sand and shambles over to the Desolate Deserter. “Get up. We need to talk.” 

DD already knows what this is about, but he gets up anyway. The Curious Dawdler reaches for him in his sleep, his small hand finding sand instead. They wait a moment to make sure he doesn’t wake up, and then they slip away from the fire, off into the darkness just outside of camp. 

SS finds a rock to sit on, his narrowed white eyes staring at DD for an uncomfortably long period of time. “How long has it been going on?”

DD doesn’t bother pretending he doesn’t understand what SS’s talking about. It would be stupid to play dumb, not when SS saw them with his own two eyes. CD had been facing DD and hadn’t seen SS poke his head in, hadn’t seen the look of confusion and disgust on SS’ face. But DD had. “Six months.” 

“Six months? Fuck…” SS shakes his head a little. “What the fuck DD? You got desperate that quickly? I’ve been out here longer than you, but I’m not trying to fuck you.” 

“Good, because I would turn you down in a heartbeat.” DD usually resists stooping to SS’s level, but he’s feeling a little petty right now, so he indulges himself. “You’re not my type.”

“And he is?” They both glance over at CD, who is softly snoring by the fire. “I want an answer - a real fucking answer. This better not be a game to you DD, because I swear if it is-“

“It’s not a game.” He knows it’s not a game to CD either. This is convenience, he won’t pretend it isn’t. But it’s more. This is a lot more than a regular fuck, because he can last longer than SS can. “He’s… an exception. I trust him.” 

“You trust him?” SS glances at CD, and then at DD, and he just shakes his head. “You went fucking mental before we met up with you. That’s the only explanation.” 

“There’s an explanation, and it isn’t your business.” DD’s testier than he should be, but it really isn’t SS’ business. It’s his and CD’s, and that’s all that matters. “This isn’t something that will affect you in any way.”

“He’s not just another conquest. You can’t just drop him when you’re tired and move on, because he won’t move on. We’ve seen the way he gets about everything else, you think sex won’t be the same?” This is the last lecture DD expected he’d be getting from SS, whose even worse about moving from one partner to another than DD is. “If you fuck up what we have because you can’t stop thinking with your dick-“

“Shut up,” DD snaps at him. SS does shut up for once. It’s a miracle. CD stirs but doesn’t wake. DD pitches his voice lower when he speaks again, “I know what this means to him. And what it means to me.” He doesn’t explain the rest of his sentence. He doesn’t have to.

It’s darker out here where they’re standing, but he can still see how big and white SS’ eyes are. The silence is oppressive, barely broken by the crackle of dry work burning. SS finally breaks it, sliding off the rock. “You did go nuts out there.” 

“Says the man who insists he saw the Queen while he was dying.” DD points out, and that’s what it takes for them to get back to the normal see-saw of their friendship. 

“Fuck you, I did see the bitch. Just wait. You’ll see. She’ll show up here one of these nights.” SS’ searching the dark for her as they head back to the camp. DD doubts BQ is anywhere near them, assuming she’s even alive. He settles down beside CD again, who automatically rolls against his chest and sighs softly. He knows SS is watching him, and he deliberately puts an arm around CD, just to spite him.

“What’s happening?” CD sleepily asks, and DD just shushes him. “DD?”

“Nothing. Go to sleep.” He strokes CD’s back and closes his own eyes. But he doesn’t fall asleep, not until he’s sure SS has already drifted off. If he were a sentimental man, he could press a kiss to CD’s head or tell him that he cares. But he’s not, and a possessive hug is about as close as DD gets to anything vaguely mushy. 


	35. Turkey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Scratch with a turkey for a head. Everyone runs away from him.

It may have been horrifying to everyone else, but Itchy just found the whole thing amusing. He had pretty good memories of the time his brother shoved the turkey over his head and the whole family laughed themselves sick at that shit. And Scratch already had a weird fucking head, so swapping it out with a dead bird was just the height of hilarity for him. 

The others don’t seem to find it anywhere nearly as fucking funny. Maybe it’s the way the turkey bulges around the curve of Doc’s ‘skull’, the way the flesh is pulled taunt and is threatening to rip apart if it stretches any. Maybe it’s the fact that Doc is clear as ever, clear as day through the meat covering his head, and that’s just really hammering home how fucking weird he is. He’s not just a guy in a mask, he is the fucking mask. A mask in a turkey head.

Itchy’s pretty much the only person who hasn’t made an excuse to get the hell out of the room, and that’s because he’s got the perfect line to use. ”C’mon Doc, putting a turkey on your head is a pretty cheap joke! I mean, it’s practically fowlplay.”

“As far as puns go, that one was rather poultry.” Scratch responds, and Itchy grins. 

“I thought it was pretty good for winging it!” He can’t stop smiling, mostly because Scratch can’t make any face at all. “I’d say it was downright eggcellent!” 

“I do hate to ruffle your feathers, but only a loon would think those were clever.” The turkey-head is making this easily one of the best conversations of Itchy’s life. 

He’s damn near bouncing on his feet, vibrating with excitement for a good pun-off. “You think you can do better? Or are you just chicken?” 

Meanwhile, while the perfect storm of puns takes over the kitchen, the rest of the Felt pile into the van and go into the city to find food that hasn’t been stretched over someone else’s head. 


	36. Perks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derples asked: droog and slick when they're still greenhorns maybe some boarderline <3 in there????? soemthing kawawii

He’s not as aloof as he’d like to be (that will come with time, and there will be a day when everything he feels never makes it to his face, but right now he’s still young and he’s still learning how to control himself utterly) and it grates that it shows on his face when he sees the Archagent’s apartment.

“Jealous?” Jack laughs. Of course DD is. Dignitary has to share an apartment with two other workers that he can barely tolerate, just like he has to share an office. There’s no such thing as privacy in this place full of people - not unless you’re Jack Noir apparently.

This apartment is around the size of Dignitary’s, but it’s so much nicer, and as far as he can tell, Jack doesn’t have to share with anyone. He even has multiple rooms, though who knows what he needs them for. And furniture - he has nice furnishings, far nicer than the default items that every other communal apartment is filled with.

Dignitary does not admit he’s jealous, but he doesn’t bother denying it other. Instead, he walks over to the window and steps out onto the balcony. He even has a view. The view from the Dignitary’s apartment is of another building.

Jack joins him after a moment, holding out a glass of something dark. DD takes it with a nod and sips. It’s scotch, and good scotch too. They don’t say much, but they don’t need to. That’s the thing that Dignitary likes most about Jack; that he occasionally knows when to shut up.

“It’s nice,” Dignitary finally says, taking another sip.

“Yeah, I know.” Jack’s smug, and DD rolls his eyes. Noir leans his back against the balcony. “You could have this too, all for the low price of letting that bitch crush your balls every day.”

He chuckles a little at that one. It’s true. DD has to put up with a lot, but he’s not in daily contact with the Black Queen. He feels better about the whole thing, and he lets a ghost of a smirk cross his face. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Sure, leave me saddled with the bitch.” Jack growls, but there’s still a smile on his face. They stay like that, almost touching but not quite, watching as Derse tilts away from Skaia once more.


	37. Drag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derples asked: Slick or Boxcars or both accidently discovering droog in drag.

Slick’s got a nasty habit of just barging into rooms without knocking, and Droog knows that and he knows better than to leave his door unlocked. But even Droog slips up sometimes, and while he’s rolling up his stockings, Slick barges in. 

Droog pauses for half a second, just long enough to establish that his gun is too far away to grab in time, and he doesn’t feel like disposing of a body tonight, and then he continues rolling up the stocking, securing it to his garters. “What do you want Slick?”

“Where’s your fucking cologne, I ran ouuuuwhat the fuck?” The exact moment Slick actually pays attention to Droog instead of just heading for Droog’s private bathroom is hard to miss. 

“Buy your own cologne Slick.” Droog switches legs, working the silk stockings over his other foot. He keeps his carefully cultivated air of indifference, even as Slick stares hard enough to put a hole in him. 

He’s expecting a question, but he still doesn’t expect the one that Slick blurts out. “Is that the dress you wore when we conned the Black Spots?”

Droog stops dead, looking at Slick. He looks back down at his dress, which is a dark, crimson red, and nothing at all like the cream flapper dress he wore when he posed as Slick’s date. Droog returns his eyes to Slick, giving him an incredulous look. “Does this look like the same dress?” 

“Fuck you, I’m just asking a question!” Slick twists his face up into a sneer. “It’s not like I keep fucking track of these things!”

“You can’t keep track of the difference between a red evening gown and a cream flapper dress?” The answer is apparently yes. Droog scoffs. “And you wonder why you can’t keep a girlfriend longer than three months.”

“Fuck you I can so, I just get bored of them!” Slick reacts about as well as he ever does. He storms into Droog’s bathroom and slams the door behind him. It’s going to take Slick about three minutes to realize that it is a second dress, and that Droog is willingly wearing a second dress. 

He uses those minutes to finish dressing and get the hell out of the hideout before Slick comes storming out. Droog slips out of the sewer just as he hears the shrill rise of Slick’s voice. 


	38. Mutual Fascination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derples asked: black queen/ar (or snowman/midnightcity!ar)

AR knows how this story goes. He’s no dummy, he’s done his reading. It’s a cliche: the detective who doesn’t believe anymore, the femme fatale with an emphasis on the fatal. He knows how this ends, and it ain’t good. There’s no such thing as picket fences and happily ever after, just a bottle of cheap whiskey for one while the sun rises or a bullet in his head and a shallow grave in the desert. 

But when he’s with her, he doesn’t care. She’s all long limbs and dangerous curves, a silver tongue that cuts like a knife and perfect lipstick prints left on his collar. 

There was a time when he believed in things like the Law, like Good and Just and Moral. There was a time he believed in this city, that Midnight was nothing but a time of day and that evil was weak. He lost all of that, lost his job, lost his status, lost even the girl he loved. Everything he believed in crumbled and fell apart, leaving him to pick up the pieces and put together new words, new concepts. 

There was no room for her in his old world. The harsh light made the whites whiter, the blacks blacker, and in that place, she was dark as sin. She was evil, a woman who could kiss you or kill you depending on her mood. But now, everything is grey, and he’s finding that she’s just another shade in a sea of shadows. 

This isn’t love. He knows what love is. Love is give and take. Love is trust. Love is acceptance. Love is waking up to find them lying there when the morning comes. Love is knowing you’re their one and only. Love is heartbreak. Love is devastation.

Love is shit. 

This is better than love. This is convenient obsession mixed with a mutual fascination. She doesn’t stay the night, she doesn’t tell the truth, and she doesn’t explain herself or who she’s been with. But then again, neither does he. 

He knows how this story ends, but for now, he’s willing to pretend he can’t see it coming from a mile away. AR’s content to keep his hands on those curves and his eyes on her lies, trusting in no one but himself.


	39. Rubble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derples asked: Deuce started out with 4 fingers but lost them HOW COZ HOW?????

It’s Droog who makes them keep looking for Deuce. Even three hours after the building collapsed, it’s Droog who pushes Slick and Boxcars to keep digging through the rubble. Even as Slick’s grumbling about how nobody could have survived, even as Boxcars looks like he’s about to rush off and exact revenge, Droog reels them back in. “We haven’t searched half this rubble. Either we find him now, or he’s dead.” 

And they do find him, eventually, just as the third hour passes. It’s Boxcars who turns over a chunk of wall and hollers out to them, “HE’S HERE! HE’S RIGHT HERE!” 

Slick and Droog rush over, climbing through the rubble. Deuce is in bad fucking shape, but he’s alive. His eyes are open and fixed on them, blood dripping down his face and soaking into his clothes. His hand is lying on his chest, and it takes Slick a moment to realize there are only two of them left. The others are little more than mangled stumps. 

Droog pulls Boxcar’s jacket off of him and lays it out on the rubble, carefully lifting Deuce into it. “Stay alive. This is a direct order.”

Deuce mumbles something that might be an okay, or might just be a whimper of pain. Boxcars scoops him up, and heads for the van, Droog and Slick running after him. 

They don’t have to stay a word. Slick looks over and Droog’s already looking back at him, nodding. They’re going to get Deuce taken care of. And when that shit is settled, they’re going to kill those sons of bitches for what they did to Deuce. It’s the least they owe Deuce for making sure they were safely out before the building came down. 


	40. Saucy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pleg asked: HIT ME WITH SOME DD AND CD AND MAKE IT SAUCY

Cooking with Deuce is a nightmare. As much as Droog tries to keep him out of trouble, he never quite manages. Even though he should be peeling potatoes up on the table, he’s once again managed to get underfoot, trying to climb up the stove to see what’s simmering on the top. 

“I want to see!” Deuce demands, trying to climb up Droog’s pants. Droog shoves him off, trying to kick him to the side. Deuce figured out how to dodge his kicks a long time ago, and by the time he gets turned around, Droog’s already halfway up his trousers, hands scrabbling at his belt as he tries to yank himself further up.

“If you rip anything, I’m going to strangle you.” Droog tries to push Deuce off. His cards are in his jacket, and his jacket is hanging in the other room. He grabs hold of the nearest thing he can and promptly smacks Deuce over the head with the wisk. It’s highly ineffective. 

Droog’s belt solves this problem for them, giving out from the weight of Deuce yanking on it, and rips out of the notch it was in. His pants promptly slide onto the floor, along with Deuce, who smacks the stove hard on the way down. The saucepan shudders and tips off the edge, dumping over Deuce, who shrieks with pain as he’s covered in hot white sauce. 

As tempting as it is to let CD feel the full consequences of his actions, Droog quickly scoops him up and puts him in the sink, turning the water on full blast and washing the sauce off of CD. He’s forced to leave his pants behind, and does his best to strip CD out of his sauce-covered clothes. CD blubbers, but it’s clear that he’s not injured, just mildly scalded and scared. 

“I told you to peel your potatoes and to wait until I asked for you help.” Droog scolds him, dumping his wet clothes in the other sink. “We’ll have to start the sauce from scratch.” 

“Hey when’s dinner going to be-” Boxcars pops his head in, gets that far, and promptly backs out without another word. Droog glances down at the mostly naked Deuce, then at his pants, lying on the floor, covered in white gunk. He glances back at Deuce, who’s flushed red and crying. At least Boxcars didn’t take a swing at Droog this time.  
   
Droog reaches over and shuts off the burner. Looks like it will be take-out tonight, again. 


	41. Prices and Values

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> whaoanon asked: can you write a fic of Droog being really confused when he shows up in the shopping mart

He goes from looking directly at Cans’ fist, to looking at rows of the thug’s namesake. A tin of peas rolls off the shelf and bounces beside Droog’s leg, rolling further down the aisle and coming to rest beside a cardboard display. 

Droog looks around, trying to decide what happened, and where he is. There are rows of canned goods around him; veritable and soups and stocks. A basket lies in the middle of the the aisle, tipped over and items spilled over the floor. There’s a list in the middle, and after a moment of being sure no one’s about to ambush him, Droog reaches for it and flips it open. 

It’s a grocery list in his handwriting. Droog did not write it though, or at least, he certainly doesn’t remember writing it. He gets to his feet, wincing as he does. He hurts all over, but more than that, he feels the all too familiar ache that comes from being temporarily displaced. It seems Cans decided to punch him forward to some period where he was shopping. 

Droog tucks the list into his pocket and limps towards the exit. The shopping can wait until he stops feeling nauseous.

There’s no much point in attempting to shop anyway, not when he’s feeling overwhelmed by the prices and values being presented to him by this selection of goods. He’ll need to read the flyer, make a plan of attack and then return with the knowledge of which brands will provide him with the best savings for the highest quality product. 

And if he has time, he’ll let Slick know he’s alive and needs a ride home. 


	42. Night Swimming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Fin and Trace going to an aquarium?

They don’t even break a sweat when they break into the aquarium. It doesn’t have the best security system, even ignoring the part where Trace and Fin can see the guard’s patrol routes and the few security cameras can easily be bypassed. They’re busy guarding a safe with that day’s fares, and that’s not what they want. 

It’s a little after midnight when they find their way into the back entrances to the large tropical fish tanks. Trace gets the door, jamming a chair underneath it, and Fin makes sure they’ve got a good escape route in case somebody happens to spot them. 

“I figure we have an hour.” Trace stripes down, getting his stuff together in a messy pile. Fin does the same with his clothes, both of them making sure their boots are easy to grab and shove on, along with their pants. The rest is optional while fleeing, but those first two are necessary. “You think that’s enough?”

“Heh, enough for me. Why, you don’t think you’ll be fast enough?” Fin gives Trace a lazy grin, and Trace juts his teeth out further in annoyance. 

“I’m plenty fast asshole. Just you watch.” They shove open the screen covering the tank, and slip in one after the other. It’s warm in there, the kind of warm that makes Trace feel lazy and content to just float around forever. Beside him, Fin spits out a lungful of air, bringing in fresh water. Trace does the same, his gills billowing open. 

Just ahead, a school of fish swim in circles. The two sharks grin at each other, and kick forward towards them. 

Just under an hour later, they slip out of the tank, laughing and cramming their legs into their pants and boots. They’re gone by the time security arrives, carrying their clothes under their arms. The only sign that they’ve been there is the displaced screen, and the pink tint to the tank’s water from tonight’s feast.


	43. Chill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Spades/Hearts fluff, in which Spades begrudgingly cuddles because it is really cold and there's only one blanket which is kinda small.

Slick likes to pretend he isn’t a cuddler. The Crew’s mostly let him have this delusion, not because they respect him, but because he’s liable to gut them if they make a crack about it.

So when Slick barges into Boxcar’s room and crawls into his bed, he keeps from being a complete smartass. A little of it worms into his voice when he says, “What’s the problem boss?”

“The fucking blankets are missing.” Slick’s tone makes it clear that if Boxcars argues that no, the blankets are in the hall closet, Slick just isn’t looking hard enough, then Slick will introduce him to his intestines. “It’s fucking cold and I can’t sleep.” 

“You want ta crash with me?” He’s not really expecting an answer. After all, Slick’s already in bed with him, his scrawny frame pressed up against Boxcar’s stomach. He’s not as small as Deuce, and he can’t sleep on his stomach like some sorta cat, but Slick’s still pretty good at gluing himself to Boxcar’s side. 

“No, I just came in here because I like your fucking company.” Slick scowls, but there’s a grain of truth in it. He grabs onto Boxcar’s blankets and shoves them over him. “And stop being a hog.”

“They were my blankets first.” He points out, but gives Slick enough to cover himself with. Slick settles his arms around Boxcars, grumbling loudly for show. He’s completely relaxed though, and when Boxcars sets a hand on his back, he doesn’t feel the usual tension there. 

“Everything in this place is mine.” Slick manages to say between the grumbling, but it’s just for show, just like stomping in here and claiming all the blankets are gone. Boxcars lets him have his little lie, giving him a pat on the back and letting Slick cuddle to his heart’s content. 


	44. Self-Imposed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Can you write something DD/CD? Something sad or sweet. I just don't see enough non-smut works for this, sorry. (sorry if this sends twice, my internet is goofing and I don't know if it sent the first time.)

It all went wrong, and for once, he didn’t expect it. They’d won after all, exiled the Black Queen and gotten away scott free - or so they’d thought. The Dignitary was taking care of a few last minute issues when Jack came over the radio, screaming bloody murder and cursing everyone he could. Shortly before the ship he was on went through the portal, he got through a warning: the trolls took the ring and exiled Jack. 

Avoiding them is easy enough. They’re smart kids, but he’s smarter, and all it takes is swapping uniforms with a similar-looking subordinate to disappear into the crowd. It doesn’t matter too long after that, not when the Black King finally wins and they head to the Battlefield for a final showdown. 

The Dignitary goes looking for the Brute, only to find that the government got him first. His records state that he was sentenced to exile. The Droll is listed as missing. Dignitary updates it to KIA, and does the same with his own file, promptly removing them from the scrutiny of whatever forces remain loyal to the ex-Queen on Derse.

It’s only when he secures the ship that it occurs to DD that he could just leave. The Brute and Jack are both gone, there’s nobody here to know the truth or to even care. CD will just be a burden in the desert, reliant on DD to take care of him, to feed and defend him, and likely to indulge in inane chitchat. He would be smart to leave CD behind, let him perish here when the session inevitably ends, or to find his own way into exile and to die in the sands of a strange world. 

There’s no logical reason to take CD with him. He’s fully aware of this as he makes his way down to the courtyard, looking through the dozens and dozens of drolls for the one that was his. He finds CD sitting outside of one of the droll-shelters, his large hat sitting beside him. It’s taller than he is, the spikes and points jutting up towards the dim light from Skaia. 

“Get up.” DD watches as CD quickly scrambles to his feet. “We’re going.” 

“Okay.” CD grabs his hat, but DD shakes his head, motioning for him to put it down. The Droll looks confused, eyes shifting from the hat to DD. “I can’t bring it?”

“You won’t need it-” He’s drowned out by a sound. The noise is horrifying, and the very foundations of Derse shake from the distant echo. It must be coming from the Black King. DD looks at CD’s tiny legs, estimates the distance between them and the docks, and scoops CD up. “We need to go, now.”

CD does not fuss or whine or insist they get his hat. He just holds tight to DD and they walk as fast as they can to the docks, Dignitary perhaps even breaking into a run now and then when the sound warbles too loudly. 

He’s fully aware that this is a stupid illogical decision, but DD makes it anyway, carrying CD with him onto a ship loaded with supplies. CD is… special. Unique. And perhaps DD is even fond of him, in his own particularly way. All of his instincts may be telling him go to this alone, but as he engages the autopilot and points the ship at the nearest gateway out of the session, he looks at CD and knows he’s making the right choice. 

Together, they take one last look at Derse and then head away into the dark and unknown. 


	45. Intersection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Fem!Jack Noir meets male!Sn0wman while fully prototyped.

There was a moment when the worlds ended where everything went… kind of squirrely. For a brief moment, as a multitude of possibilities flashed and died and died again, two figures met. 

Snowman was bleeding out, hand over his heart, blood blood gushing out over his coat. It was a little late to be upset about ruining it, particularly when he could feel stars dying out one by one inside his skin, but he felt irked all the same. This was his coat, and it was ruined now. 

For a moment, he thought it was Slick staring down at him, still holding Scratch’s pistol in her hand. But the eye patch and robotic arm were gone, and there was the unmistakable glow of a ring on her hand. The prototyping was unfamiliar, nothing like what he saw his wife wear on Derse. There’s a sword in her hand, red blood dripping off the blade.

She looks just as surprised as he feels. “You’re dead!” Jaq says in a horrified tone. “I fucking killed you!” 

“Yes, you did.” It hurts pretty bad. He struggles to breathe as his heart clenches around the bullet lodged inside of it. It burns, and it won’t be much longer until he dies. He grins at her, more of a baring of teeth than anything vaguely amused. “And you killed yourself in the process.” 

She raises her sword, her monstrous face snarling with rage. Snowman just laughs, right up until the moment the sword sweeps through his throat.


	46. Irony

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Scratch vs Droog. Fancy suit face off. Ironing puns.

“Though I know you’re pressed for time and feeling rather steamed, I must insist we complete this duel. Your humour is dry but a little wordplay won’t put a wrinkle in your plans, though it may leave you a little board.”

No matter how many times Droog hit Scratch with the pool cue, he refused to stop with the horrible puns. It was like hell, even worse than the time Slick spent half an hour struggling to make puns, because at least then Droog had been able to take some mild enjoyment from the fit Slick pitched when an innocent bystander finished the pun for him.


	47. Merry Little Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derples asked: Stabdad christmas 8 )

Shopping for Midwinter gifts is a pain in the fucking ass. Slick would be happy to just give Karkat cash and tell him to get lost, but the first time he tried that, the fucking kid cried all morning.

He says as much to Boxcars, who makes a face. “He was five boss, he wanted a present.”

“Money’s better! You can buy your own fucking present and get exactly what you want!” He snaps back, sulking. Since that first disastrous attempt of gift-giving, Boxcars had insisted that they go shopping as a group. Deuce and Droog were off in different departments. Slick would have given anything to be with them, right than here with Boxcars.

“Your kid wants a present, not money.” He pushes Slick closer to the selection in front of them. As far as the eye can see, there are troll movies with stupid fucking long-ass troll titles, and their stupid aged or mocked-up box art. Slick hates troll films, can’t understand why the fuck anybody would ever want to watch them.

But Karkat eats that shit up with a spoon. So here’s standing here with Boxcars, trying to pick out something. He reaches out and grabs the first film in front of him. “I’ll give him that one.”

“Don’t give ‘em that one, it’s got a sad ending.” Slick shudders. Sad endings. Last thing he needs to deal with is that kid crying and then trying to tell Slick about why crying at movies is completely okay, fuck you dad. He puts it back and picks out another. Boxcars just shakes his head again. “He’s already got that one.”

“Fuck you, you pick one out then!” Slick shoves the case at him and storms off. He ends up pacing through store aisles until he ends up near the sporting section. He looks at the selection of knives, settling on a switchblade and breaking into the counter to grab it rather than wait for the clerk to get their slow-ass over there.

He met up with the others at the front of the store. Droog had a book about archaeological discoveries under his arm. Deuce had some gross fleshy looking thing in a box, presumably for Sollux’s computer. Boxcars had a dozen foil-wrapped packs of cards, and some movie with faeries on the front.

“Here.” He handed Slick two of the troll films. Slick glances at the fronts. Their titles were still stupidly long, but at least they looked mildly less moronic than the usual selection. One of the troll actresses was actually quite attractive, for an alien. “What else did you get him?” Slick shows Boxcars the switchblade, expecting him to tell Slick to put it back. But he just nods instead. “That’s good. A nice reminder of his old man.”

“Fuck you, I’m not anybody’s ‘old’ anything.” Slick snaps, but he pockets the knife again. Maybe Karkat will still prefer these shitty movies, but at least he’ll have something from Slick that he actually picked out.


	48. Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> luckyspike asked: Slick and Snowman making an attempt at redrom

There are moments now and then in the hurricane of their hatred when they hit something that’s almost like love. It’s in the moments when they forget to hate each other so hard, when instead of a gun pointed at him under the table, he finds her foot brushing against him. When instead of biting her, he kisses her instead. When instead of bruises and cuts, their hands settle for calm caresses.

They never last long. They can’t. Eventually one or the other realizes and draws back, repulsed that they’ve fallen into the trap of aping affection, lashing out half a second later as if they can blot out that moment of weakness with one of rage. Violence begets violence and they fuck each other up worse than before, both leaving with new strains and pains that will pull at them for weeks, until they repeat this all over again.

Sometimes though, and they will never admit this to each other, they end up clinging to that moment of cherry red in a sea of black. There are times when she feels his hand settle on her knee and she leaves it there, even though she knows she should push it off. There are times when she kisses him, and he should bite her, but he doesn’t. There are moments, particularly when they lie in bed with their arms around each other, when they both know they should take this moment to strike while the other’s defences are down. His head nestles into her chest, and her hand cups the back of his head, and they both pretend for a moment or two that they’ve forgotten to hate this.

It never lasts long, no matter how hard they try to stretch it. There’s too much pain here, and both their egos lay on the line. Admitting feelings is as good as admitting failure, and if there’s one thing they have in common, it’s a refusal to lose. So the kindness becomes pain, and they hate one another like they should for a while. But eventually that time comes around, the velvet glove covering iron beneath, and there is a moment of something like love, though only ever a moment.


	49. Seeing Double

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: Midnight crew!WQ meets The Felt for the very first time.

The wonderful thing about the Felt mansion is that no matter the day, there is always at least one walk-of-shame as some sleep-deprived soul attempts to creep out of the bed they found themselves in last night and tries to disappear back into the city. The best mornings are when over half the Felt has brought someone home, and there’s the hysterical moment when half a dozen people run into one another on their way out the door.

Sawbuck’s one-night stand has already wobbled bow-leggedly out the door, and Itchy’s not sure if there’s anyone else coming when he hears the familiar slam of an upstairs door. He zips up to check, almost stopping dead when he sees it’s Snowman. Her one-night stands are irregular, usually a collection of muscle-bound men who don’t have much in the way of brains or Slick, who always goes in and out through her window. But this isn’t anything like her usual fare.

“Heeeey baby,” Itchy zips up beside her, and the woman flinches back, clearly startled. She digs out a gun from her purse, and everything is so much more hilarious when Itchy gets a good look at her face and realizes that she’s the splitting image of Snowman. “Hahaha holy shit!”

“Get out of my way,” She commands in that same I’m-so-fucking-special-listen-to-me tone that Snowman uses when she’s pissed, and Itchy starts laughing. The gun is shoved in his face, but he can’t take anything seriously. “You heard me-“

“Y’know, narcissism is my favorite personality disorder, hands down. If I had another one of me, I’d do exactly the same as you just did.” He zips out of the way of the gun, over to her other side to settle a hand on the curve of her ass. “Hey, listen, how about you pop into my room for a bit? Maybe we can talk about how much we love each other-“

She hits him like a ton of bricks, and Itchy ends up sprawled out on the floor, rubbing one bright red cheek. The white Snowman storms out, and Itchy just admires the view as her ass tick-tocks from side to side.

Snowman’s door opens again, and she glances down at Itchy, dressed in her bathrobe. “I see she met the welcoming committee.”

“You should have told me you had a thing for fucking yourself. We have so much in common. You like sex. I like sex. You fucked your double. I’d like to fuck mine. Maybe we could go back to your room-” Itchy gets about halfway through before she starts laughing. Even after she shuts the door, she’s still laughing her ass off. “I’m just saying!” He yells out.

There’s another door slamming. Itchy zips over to see which other unlucky ladies or gents are trying to slip out of the mansion tonight.


	50. Luster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked: White Queen/Jack when they're "allies" in the troll session

He finds the White Queen’s head in the Black Queen’s room while searching through her possessions. There’s one horrifying moment when he lifts the lid off the box and sees those sunken black eyes staring up at him, and all at once, Jack knows she’s really there, that somehow she’s going to come lunging out at him. He drops the box and scrambles away from it, trying to put as much distance between him and her as he possibly can.

It’s only once Jack’s able to calm down once he gets a better look at the head, having rolled out of the box after being dropped. It’s been severed by something sharp and precise, one of the Black Queen’s claws maybe. He carefully approaches it, taking a closer look. The head is just an empty husk, and what he had mistaken for eyes were really just empty holes where darkness lurked.

“So that’s where you went when she was done with you.” Jack picks the White Queen’s head up. Her shell has lost its luster in death, and there are thin spiderweb of cracks on her right cheek. He can’t tell if that’s his fault for dropping her, or if the Black Queen had gotten that blow in a long time ago. “I thought she’d have your head piked and hung beside her throne.”

It’s funny. In a way, they were allies, though she was certainly never aware of it. Maybe she’d suspected when the information about the Black Queen’s location turned up ever so conveniently in those first few hours. He doubted she would have ever thought it would have come from him, but maybe she imagined there was someone sympathetic to Prospit.

Jack has no sympathy for Prospit. He’s just as happy to watch it burn - and it will burn now that the Black Queen is gone and he has control of her throne. But they had a mutual goal, and for a while, that meant they could work together, even if she was unaware of it. In the end, the White Queen had failed and Jack had been forced to find other parties to align himself with. The children had succeeded where an indirect assassination attempt had failed.

At least she’d had the decency to get herself murdered and take Jack’s secret to the grave with her. These troll kids weren’t so easily taken care of. They were on his list to be rid of, soon as he could manage it.

“Well I won’t be keeping any of their heads,” Jack told the empty shell, tucking her back in her box, “But maybe I’ll hang onto yours. You’re not the right dead Queen, but you’re still one hell of a trophy.”


	51. The Dog Throw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derples asked: slick in one of his very few male relationships

Slick met the Sharp Evader while the kid was trying to hyjack a get-away vehicle. It’s mostly good luck on both their parts, since Slick was trying to get the fuck away from the cops, and the Prospitian needed somebody to get away from besides boredom. He always chuckles a little when he remembers the moment he slid into the drivers seat, slipping his knife into his palm to threaten the driver into driving, only to find the driver up to his elbows in wires. 

The kid was a pretty good driver and they sped through the dark city streets, the cops right on their ass. Slick knew the twists and turns, and with SE at the wheel it was easy to tell him where to go, often with only second to spare. They finally lost them, skidding to a stop behind a warehouse. SE had grinned at Slick, and Slick had grabbed hold of the kid’s cheap shirt, yanking him in close, letting his body do all the talking. 

It hadn’t lasted too long, but none of Slick relationships ever did. Still, this one lasted longer than most. The Sharp Evader was smart, smart enough to keep up with Slick, but not so smart that he went running ahead of him. He served as get-away driver now and then, but mostly he just served as a boyfriend. Instead of the usual molls on his arm, for a few months, he ran with the Evader, enjoying the change in scenery. A dame was always nice, but there was something good about SE, about the way he looked good in a suit and how he laughed at Slick’s jokes, even when they knew they weren’t all that funny. The sex was pretty great, rough and fast without much worry about pissing each other off. SE had potential, the sort of mind that could be dangerous, and a drive that made Slick a little envious. 

So it was only inevitable that one day SE would slip out, taking the latest heist plans with him. Slick didn’t even notice right away - he was getting bored with SE if he was being truthful, more than ready to move on to something new. It was only when Droog flipped the fuck out about the missing plans that he realized anything was wrong. The heist went off without a hitch for SE, and all that fucking cash that belonged to the crew disappeared.

The next time he saw SE, the kid didn’t look too much like a kid anymore, and he wasn’t alone. The kid got himself into a gang, bunch of red-suit motherfuckers with pips on their bow ties. He had two dots on his, one on each bow, and that same sharp look in his eye that Slick had gotten fond of, for a while. 

“Sharp Evader.” He growled, cards in his hands, ready to transform at his bidding. 

SE just shook his head, giving Slick a grin, the same one he’d given him in the car so many months ago. “Snake Eyes.” 

Name suits him. The red of the suit could use a little work. Slick flips his cards. Time to help SE into something that’s a darker shade of red.


	52. Reenactment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derples asked: Scratch finding the felt reenacting his pedologs with vriska/rose or whoever

All things considered, it was a rather decent reproduction of events. Even the costumes were rather decent, though not entirely accurate. Then again, Doc Scratch knew that Die was wearing purple lipstick because he had been entirely unable to find black in any store. 

The headband and wig did nothing to complete the rather shaky illusion of a man in his early thirties attempting to take the place of a thirteen year old girl. And that dress simply did nothing for Die’s figure, hanging on him like a trash bag. 

Still, compared to Itchy’s outfit, it was at least passable. Die’s outfit appeared to be the sort of thing someone would actually wear. Itchy’s, on the other hand, was a red and yellow monstrosity that seemed to be the product of an overenthusiastic mind deciding that what power armour really needed was a skirt, and perhaps goggles of a large and decidedly unfashionable nature. 

“Oh no no no no no! Rose that is a much much worse plan! He would probably kill you!” Itchy had decided that what his role really needed was a falsetto. It was terrible, but the rest of the audience found it just the most amusing thing ever. Really, it was difficult living in a house with so many people with such terrible taste. 

Die rolled his eyes, delivering his lines with a flair that was not entirely insufferable. “Probably. But the Scratch will wipe us out anyway, and reboot the conditions of our session. I suddenly don’t feel much like sneaking through the back door of the Furthest Ring for retribution by distant super nova.” 

“I know what you mean, I was angry at jack and wanted to stop him too, but we have to think of a more sensible way to do it.” This is not entirely how this conversation happened, of course. Rose and Jade had not been in the same area when Scratch chose to contact them. However, since that was not entirely clear in the pesterlog, it seems that the Felt had taken some liberties with events. 

“Whether my existing plan was sensible or not, I may have been allowing myself to be manipulated by an omniscient being regardless.” Die carries on, reaching the part that Scratch has been somewhat dreading, though dread is an odd term to use. To truly dread, he would need to be unaware of what the future held for him. His omniscience ensured that Scratch knew exactly what was about to happened. 

“What? Who?” Itchy made a production out of looking around, clearly aiming for some cheap laughs. 

Snowman fades in, dressed in a white suit with what appears to be a large lightbulb on her head. While Scratch finds this whole thing to be tacky, he is at least able to admire how excellent his suit looks, even when it isn’t on him. It is the sharpest thing in the room, besides the suit he’s currently wearing of course, and the sharpest thing for miles around. This is not a boast made lightly, even though his only competition comes in the form of two outfits designed by 13 year old girls with questionable tastes and a wide selection of bright green uniforms. 

“Hello ladies.” Snowman greets them, with sniggers from the audience. Scratch simply keeps his hands folded on his lap, eagerly awaiting his inevitable death. It cannot come quickly enough.


	53. Cointoss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derples asked: clover cheating on cans

Clover is rounding third base and heading for home when Quarters pushes him gently out of his lap and keeps his hands up. “Clover, I’ve been thinking and we have to stop.” 

“That’s not what the rest of your body’s thinking!” Clover titters and Quarters goes a shade of darker green as his face flushes. He scoots back into Quarter’s lap, peering up at Quarters and batting his eyes. “And you shouldn’t be thinking at a time like this!” 

“I’m pretty sure I should be.” He pushes a hand out, keeping Clover slightly away from his body. “Especially since if Cans catches us-“

“He won’t.” Clover giggles and then rolls his eyes when Quarters gets his beak into even more of a twist. “He can’t! That’s how my luck works! He’ll never catch me in the act with anybody else!” 

“Yeah, he’ll never catch you. But he might catch me.” Quarters has been thinking about this too much. But there’s no point. Clover’s giggling, easily scaling the outstretched hand. There’s one person in this room with good luck, and he knows that all he has to do is be charming and persistent and he’ll keep getting everything he wants. 

And sure, maybe Cans will find out. And maybe Quarters does have something to worry about. But as long as it isn’t going to hurt Clover, then he doesn’t care all that much. He just bats his eyes and scales Quarter’s suit. “Don’t worry about all of that. You’re safe as long as you’re with me.” 

The moment he sees Quarter’s shoulders relax, he knows he’s won once again. “Yeah… you’re right. You’re my good luck charm.” 

“Sure am!” Clover agrees and gives Quarter’s a kiss, giggling even as he does that.


	54. The New Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> doc scratch putting makeup on a baby (handmaid grub)

He had his items on hand when he found the grub lying in the ruins of the crater, whining and calling out for a lusus that would never come. She was unremarkable, a grub that could have been any grub. Her blood colour was hidden at this age, and would continue to hide deep within her veins until maturation was complete. 

But that wouldn't do. The Handmaid is not an ordinary grub. She live here, beyond the ends of her civilization. They are not there to teach her the lessons a low-blood needs to know. They are not there to fill her with loathing for her status, to destroy her on a daily basis with their cruelty, to make sure she is aware, now and forever, that she is the bottom run on a very tall ladder. 

He paints her lips, the lipstick hiding those plain grey lips behind the dark red of her blood. Her eyes need tending to, and he adheres eyelashes, not minding how she squirms as he coats the edges of her eyes with glue. When he’s done, she looks up at him with confusion in her small eyes. 

Doc Scratch picks up the Handmaid, cradling the grub in his soft arms. It won’t be long until this becomes normal for her. And in the end, when she takes out her hatred and frustration on the entirety of the Troll race, it will feel as normal to her as lipstick and eyelashes.


	55. Makeover Makeover

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Doc scratch putting make up on himself.

He didn’t need a face, but occasionally he did enjoy drawing one on for special occasions. And this was the most special occasion of them all. Doc Scratch did not need to use a mirror, and so, he stood in his room, his items within reach on the top of the dresser, and slowly created a face from scratch.

He took his time crafting it. There was no rush. He was aware he would finish his face precisely two minutes before his guest arrived. The proper amount of time had been allocated to complete his task. He first put down his base, then began to work on his facial features, making them pleasantly round to suit the contour of his head. The colours were picked to compliment his suit, of course, pale white and dark green. Eyes were drawn in, though they were quite useless, and a mouth was added that was drawn into a cunning, charming smile. From a distance, he could be mistaken for someone else, something else, than who and what he really was.

The illusion fell apart up close, but then again, this was never about maintaining the illusion for any real length of time. It was just a minor distraction, one meant to keep the world moving along it’s predetermined path.

He filled in the last of his eye shadow, his false eyes popping. Scratch set his make-up aside and headed downstairs to the door. He reached it just as the knock came, just as the doors were thrust open by a petulant child who refused to wait. Spades Slick stormed into the room, snarling and cussing, ready to take on the world. Those burning eyes settled on Doc Scratch.

Two minutes later, and Slick was gone for another few months just like that. Scratch patched himself up in Stitch’s boutique, reflecting briefly on Slick, who did not have the same appreciation for make-up that Scratch did. The little stab marks easily came together, sewed up in neat little stitches by hand. The make-up, however, was ruined. He washed his face clean and watched patiently as the colours rubbed off on the facecloth and slipped down the sink.


	56. Buds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> So I was reading that Roses fic of yours again and got me thinking. What if Snowy and Boxcars did successfully have a kid? ( this is a request, by the way :3 )

He sees her now and again, that small dark face, those white eyes so much like her mother’s peeking through a partly open door or staring at him from a window. There was a time when Boxcars used to rush toward her, hoping maybe this time she would still be there by the time he got through the door or opened the window, but now he stays where he is, meeting her eye and just looking at her until she disappears. 

Snowman and Boxcars still meet up in the apartment when they can, but the flame has dampened. They rarely fuck these days, though they still share a bed. Mostly they talk about their daughter, and wait to see if she’ll show up. Sometimes she does, and they can hear her playing in the bedroom they decorated for her, or spot her running past the front door, the only sound the soft thump of little feet against the wood. 

The thing about inheritance is that you don’t always get to decide what a child gets; the shape of his head, the solidness of his build, her mother’s eyes and the questioning tilt of the head that is perfectly Snowman. 

And those damned powers. She got part of those too. He only got to hold her in his arms a few times before something inborn in his baby girl triggered, and she disappeared on him just like that. Snowman’s able to track her down now and then, able to even spend a little time with her. Only Doc Scratch is able to follow his daughter as she shifts madly between timelines, and he’s the reason she’s alive instead of starved to death at a month and a half. 

The girl’s about five now. He keeps hoping that maybe one day, she’ll get control over herself. Maybe one day, he’ll be able to reach her before she disappears again, and maybe for a moment, he can hold his child and tell her what her name is and how much he loves her. For now, he has to be content with being haunted by the ghost of a daughter, and with those brief moments when he raises a hand to wave to her, and she chooses to wave back.


	57. Creep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> trace being a creep

It used to be, before the Felt, that he had to be content with watching from afar. There were many evenings spent in the dark with a telescope that had never been used to look at the stars, or sitting on the hood of a car with a pair of binoculars, looking into someone else’s life through their open curtains. Now and then, when he got brave enough, he would steal into someone’s back yard and lurk by an open window, close enough to hear as well as see. Or maybe he would slip in while no one was there and take a souvenir or two. He had a nice collection, even now, carefully hidden beneath his bed. 

But things have changed. Everywhere he goes, he gets a glimpse into lives, any life. He can stand in an empty apartment and watch while a woman goes about her morning routine, stand two feet away while she dresses, or sit beside her while she eats breakfast. And he can touch, though he has to be careful about that. People will start to ask questions, and if the others find out… 

Empty houses are his favorite because there’s no rush. They’re already gone. He can take his time to follow their trail and fully look into their lives. Trace can even lie beside them in bed, watching them sleep while he leans in close, smelling laundry soap and fading perfume, so close he can nearly feel the heat of their body against his. He talks to them, knowing they’ll never hear him, though sometimes they flinch a little in their sleep, as if his words have made their way into their dreams. 

“Soon.” He promises them sometimes, knowing that in another week or so, he’ll ‘accidentally’ encounter them in the regular flow of time, with enough knowledge to easily get by their defenses and into their bed without breaking in. “I’ll be seeing you real soon.”


	58. Courage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> itchy/doze awkward love confessions

Doze is not a courageous person, which is likely why he’s still alive since he’s not the kind of idiot to throw himself into a dangerous situation. But he’s feeling brave right now, lying beside Itchy, still sweaty and content after sex, and he finds that he’s actually able to put his thoughts into words. 

“Itchy… I… I just wanted you to know…” Doze struggles with the words, finding it hard to express how he feels at this moment. “I… I just… I really like… well. It’s. More than like… I-“

“Yeah, I know.” Itchy stretches, out, settling an arm around Doze’s shoulder so they’re cuddling. “I love it too.”

“You do?” This was going so much better than Doze had hoped it would. Itchy always seemed to ruin the moment. For once, things were going the way they should. “Oh good… because I…. I really love you.”

“What?” Itchy frowns, glancing down at Doze. “What are you talking about?” 

“… my feelings for you?” Doze is really, really regretting his decision to be brave instead of safe. “What did you think… I was talking about?” 

“Blowjobs. We just finished fucking. What the hell are you bringing love up for?” Itchy pulls a face, then quickly pushes it aside as excitement replaces it. “Wait, if you love me, does that mean you’ll go make me a sandwich? Because I really want a sandwich right now.” 

Doze, too busy being embarrassed to get properly angry, just rolls out of bed and lies on the floor, waiting for it to hurry up and swallow him alive. 

Itchy leans over the side, looking at Doze. “I’m serious about the sandwich thing. Just putting that out there.”


	59. Sulk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> die hopping into a timeline defined by a dead person and the people around the dead body going jesus christ die waht are you doing here

It’s already been an ugly week, and Die is just the cherry on top of a shit sundae. Stitch is trying to put Fin together so they at least have something person-shaped to bury, and when he gets a glimpse of Die appearing, with that usual sulky look on his face, Stitch just can’t help himself. He punches Die straight in the nose, watching him hit the ground with satisfaction. 

“Hey!” Die clutches his doll closer to his chest, and Stitch knows the little bastard’s hand is digging around in his pocket for the 9 pin. “What was that for?” 

“What the fuck do you think it’s for?” Stitch motions to Fin’s corpse, and then to the 5 pin clearly sticking out of the doll, along with Itchy and Quarter’s pins. So that answers their wondering about how Itchy is holding up. “What did you get them killed over this time? A game of cards? Did they eat your dinner again? What was so fucking important that you had to storm off to a timeline where they were dead?” 

Die huffs, pulling himself up off the floor and glowering at Stitch. “I didn't get them killed-“

“You damn well did. You stuck a pin in your fucking doll and made a timeline just so you could sulk like a child.” Maybe some other time, he wouldn't care. But he’s got blood on his hands and he’s pissed off, so he doesn't have any patience for Die’s bullshit. “How about you hurry up and stick mine in so you can go throw a fit somewhere else?” 

Die’s jaw sets, and he stabs the 9-pin in, up and vanishing. Stitch turns back to his work. Die will be back when he gets tired of sitting around an empty mansion - assuming there even is a mansion in timelines where Stitch is dead - and he’ll come back through in order to get back to the right timeline, the one where everyone’s alive and Die has nothing better to do than throw a fit about petty shit. 

Stitch gets to stitching, refusing to look back over his shoulder when he hears Die pop in and out again a few minutes later.


	60. Toss Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> oh gosh you realise you have to write Cans finding out now

Clover thought it would be funny when Cans found out. He’d never had anyone like him enough to be jealous, and he was hoping for some real fireworks and shouting, and Quarters being knocked so far back in time that Scratch would have to send Sawbuck to get him. Clover was really more interested in how badly everything would fail than in Quarters himself (oh he wasn’t bad looking but Clover was only into him for the sex).

It was just like Midwinter Day when Cans walked in on Clover and Quarters, and when he halted in the doorway, clearly shocked by what he was seeing, Clover had to bite back giggles of anticipation so he didn’t ruin anything. He expected excitement. What he got was Cans’ whole face just falling, and a look of hurt that was like a punch right to the gut. And then Cans turned around and walked away without a word.

“Cans, Cans wait!” Clover scrambles out of Quarter’s grasp - an easy task when Quarters suddenly starts to panic, and yanks his pants up, running after Cans. He’s quick, but his legs are short and Cans isn’t stopping, no matter how much Clover calls his name. “Cans! Stop! Cans come back! Cans!” 

The front door slams at Cans reaches it first, and Clover’s left standing in the hall, feeling like he’s the one who walked in on somebody. This isn’t what he wanted. It was just supposed to be something fun, a prank that maybe went over the line, but in a good way. After all, he’d always gotten lucky in the past. 

Right now, standing in the hall, he feels like maybe his luck finally ran out.


	61. Intel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> The felt's least successful attempt at torture interrogation

Torturing the Crew was usually an exercise in futility. Slick’s rage made it damn near impossible to get anything out of him, while Droog’s ability to keep his cool meant he could keep his gums from flapping no matter what they did to them. Boxcars could take whatever punishment was dished out, though he had a weak spot when it came to the rest of the Crew.

But the most infuriating of all was Deuce. The problem with Deuce wasn’t that he wouldn’t talk - though it took them a damn long time to get him to start speaking. The problem was that none of his information could be trusted. He would tell you something with a convincing look in his eye that would turn out to be complete bullshit. Crowbar’s met a lot of liars in his time, and he knows very well that people will tell you anything you want just to make the pain stop. But when Deuce talks, Crowbar can’t tell if he’s telling the truth or not. Everything he says is so sincere, even the things that can’t possibly be true.

They’ve been at this for a few hours now, and Crowbar has a notepad full of information he can’t trust. Some of it is good, and that’s really what makes this the worst, because the only way to tell the good intel from the bad is to test all of it.

“You’re a real son of a bitch.” He tells Deuce, who is currently unconscious from the last round of torture. Crowbar takes a seat and waits for him to wake up, trying to decide if it’s just easier to give up, or if he should try in case maybe this time they get something good out of Deuce between all the lying.


	62. Domestic Duties

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Diabeetus-inducing Droog/Deuce doing everyday activities

The problem with a secret hideout is that you can’t hire someone to clean it for you and still keep it secret. The same goes for cooking, shopping, and any of a dozen other domestic activities that the Crew would prefer to hire out but is forced to do among themselves. 

This week, Deuce is on cleaning duty, which means that Droog has to help him since the last time they left him unsupervised with the cleaning chemicals, he managed to create chlorine gas and nearly killed them all.

Supervising always starts out the same, with Droog reading his newspaper and glancing over at Deuce every so often as he slowly makes his way across the kitchen floor with a scrub brush. Inevitably, Droog sighs and puts his paper away, removing his jacket and fetching the mop to speed things up. It’s an act; Droog always makes sure to wear one of his nearly-worn-out suits when Deuce is on cleaning duty. But he has his dignity, and he has no interest in making it obvious that he planned to help from the start. 

Droog mops around Deuce, who helpfully goes to work on the bloodstains and dried spaghetti sauce that Boxcars dripped on the floor and missed. When that’s done, they head down the hall and into the main room, scrubbing and mopping up the tracked in dirt. 

While all that dries, they tackle the rest. Dishes are easy enough with Droog washing and Deuce drying, though it’s Droog who has to put them away or risk broken glass everywhere. The washroom is another can of worms, and Deuce takes care of the toilet while Droog makes sure he doesn’t drown himself in it. 

By the time Slick and Boxcars finally return from shopping, the whole house is spic and span. Droog always makes sure he has time to change into a good suit when he’s done, so he can keep up the illusion. Deuce, however, remains the sweaty, somewhat filthy mess he ends up after crawling around on the floor all day. 

“Good job.” Boxcars gives Deuce a pat on the head while Slick just sneers and heads for the kitchen. 

“Thanks!” Deuce beams at him, and as Boxcars heads after Slick to make supper, he climbs up on the couch. Droog carefully eyes up Deuce, only relaxing once Deuce puts a pillow on Droog’s lap and then lays his head on that, taking care not to actually touch Droog directly. “Thanks.”

“Hm.” Droog turns the page, ignoring the comfortable weight of Deuce lying in his lap.


	63. Let Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derples asked:  
> CROWBAR/DIE CROWBAR REJECTING DIE FOR SNOWMAN rhanks

This isn’t the first time he’s had someone confess they were attracted to him. There were times as a teenager when his sister’s friends and the neighborhood girls laid it all on the line, and he deflected and dodged and did his best to avoid answering them with the truth (which was that he liked them, but he didn’t like like them) and it ended with them storming out. He was young then, and the bad feelings never stuck for long. 

He hasn’t been a teenager in a long time. And when Die lays it out for Crowbar in the lounge, his voice quiet and nervous as he spills his guts, Crowbar is all too aware that he won’t be able to so easily shrug off what he’s about to do to him. 

“I. Wow. That’s. Really flattering.” Crowbar says, and the spark of hope just dies in Die’s eyes. They both know what those words mean. He tries hard not to let him down, knowing that any answer other than ‘yes I’m interested in you too’ will hurt. “Anybody would be lucky to have somebody but you.” 

“But not you…” Die’s voice is so defeated. Just a few seconds ago, he sounded so hopeful. 

“I’m… well. See, I’m not- I don’t… you’re a… striking looking man. And good, and a crack shot. You’re a great person. I’m just… not attracted to men.” He gives up on trying to shore up Die’s ego when it becomes clear that absolutely nothing he says is helping here. “Sorry Die.” 

“It’s fine. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” It’s not fine. Die’s taking steps away from Crowbar, looking like he’s desperately hanging on to what dignity he has left so he can make a clean get-away and be in his room before his real emotions come gushing out. “I’ve… got something to do.” 

“Yeah, me too. Snowman and I are on surveillance duty so I need to round up some stuff and-” It doesn’t hit him how stupid it was to say that until the hurt surfaces on Die’s face, and Crowbar catches himself; the way his voice warms when talking about her, the way he somewhat smiles at the thought of her. That was a stupid thing to do, and more than that, it was cruel to bring her up. “Die-“

There’s no more “it’s fine”s from him. Die quickly retreats and Crowbar lets him go, knowing that all chasing him will do is hurt Die more. He’s a good person. But Crowbar just isn’t attracted to him, not physically and not emotionally, and he doesn’t have it in him to lie just to spare his feelings. 

If he was younger, this would already be fading for him. The guilt would be there, but slowly tempered by every moment, until it disappeared entirely. The lump of guilt in Crowbar’s chest won’t be going away anytime soon.


	64. Drag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Fic request: Hearts cross dresses. Gets fashion tips from Diamonds
> 
> Anonymous asked:  
> Droog putting the rest of the crew in drag what is required for a heist idfk thats not important whats important is Droog telling slick how to pass as a girl

“So?”

Droog takes a good look at Boxcars’ outfit. He doesn’t say anything for a few minutes, clearly evaluating what’s in front of him. 

“The dress is two years out of fashion. The hemline’s too long. It doesn’t fit you properly across your chest. The lace makes you look like a schoolmarm trying, and failing at being feminine. You look boxy in it. That hat is awful. And your makeup is on too thick.” 

Boxcars looks down at himself, and then up at Droog, scowling. “You’re a real asshole.”

“Yes. But I’m also right.” Droog stubs out his cigarette and heads over to Boxcars. “Let’s fix you up, before you scare anyone away.” 

\--

Slick’s barely stepped out of his room before Droog’s making a face at him. The only rational response is to flip him the bird. “Hey fuck you, I look hot! I’d bang me!” 

“You look like you’re stumbling home after an all night bender. Did you put on your makeup in the dark? And where did you even get that dress? One of your ‘conquests’?” 

“So what if I did? She looked great in it.” Slick adjusts himself, rolling his eyes as Droog shakes his head. He does grin though, when a line comes to mind. “Looked even better in a ball. On the floor. The floor my bedroom. Because I-“

“Stop, stop stop, just stop.” 

A beat.

“Because I fucked her.” Slick finishes, just to watch Droog wince.


	65. Crushed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Snow leading Doze on. Because the idea of him crushing is just too hilarious...

Snowman doesn’t lead men on. It’s not her fault that they just read into her actions, mistaking the familiar comforting gestures of a once-Queen as a sign of deeper intimacy. Most of the time, she feels nothing for those who dash their hearts against her iron walls, except perhaps a little pity.

With Doze, though, she does sincerely feel terrible once she realizes what’s happened. It’s too late to go back though, too late to stop him from falling in love with her. She can see the longing in his eyes when they speak, burning him up from the inside. He’s a sweet man, very kind, worth his weight in gold…

But she doesn’t want him back. Other women could perhaps fake it, convince themselves that they could learn to love him if they simply tried. She’s never had to learn that skill though, never had to force herself to do anything she didn’t want to. She can’t make herself even pretend to love him. Nor can she reject him, not when he’s yet to make a single move. 

It’s clear he’s not content with being friends. But when he fails to ask for more, she can hardly draw a clear line between what is acceptable and what isn’t. All she can do is pull away and avoid the hurt look in his eyes, hoping that perhaps this time, he’ll understand.


	66. Vacation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Droog goes missing.

It’s not the first time Droog’s disappeared. About once a year, he’ll just pick up and disappear without a word. It’s not too easy to tell the difference between disappearing and getting captured by the Felt, but they’ve learned to check on Droog’s dress clothes. If the clothes are gone, then Droog’s out doing something.

He’ll turn up again in a few weeks without a word or explanation. Slick used to scream at him to try get an answer, but they’ve given up on that these days and accepted that it’s just part of Droog’s MO. Maybe he needs a break from the Crew, or a break from being a gangster.

Nobody’s sure what he does. They never run into him during the break. Nobody sees him, not even the snitches that report back on everything. Even though his dress clothes are gone, they never see him eating anywhere classy or going out for drinks at the more upscale joints around the city. He just falls off the face of the planet, and when he shows up again, he goes back to acting like it never happened. 

Deuce saw him once, though he’s never told Boxcars or Slick. He was climbing down a fire escape to ditch a one-night-stand when he peeked into a window and saw Droog sitting in a kitchen by himself. Deuce almost didn’t recognize him at first, and when he did, he froze in the window, staring in shock at Droog, dressed in a cheap bathrobe and eating fried eggs.

It was only fear of discovery that made Deuce finally move, leaving Droog to his ordinary breakfast with his ordinary clothes. He never mentioned it to the others, knowing that what had shaken his world would certain destroy theirs.


	67. Suits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DD and HB, DD trying to get him to wear a proper suit

This is the forth suit DD’s purchased on behalf of HB. He knows it fits him - Droog took Boxcar’s measurements himself and his tailor is the best in the city. He knows the style is fine - Droog’s constantly chosen something more classic looking, less likely to go out of style. And he knows that it’s comfortable, because they certainly aren’t any less comfortable than the coat Boxcars currently wears.

Boxcars makes it all the more infuriating by graciously accepting the gift, and then promptly never making use of it, even when they have dinner at a nice restaurant together. It doesn’t help that nobody enforces the dress code when it comes to Boxcars, so among all the dinners in their good clothes, Boxcars sits wearing his long, heavy coat that is clearly stained with blood in places. 

“You’re embarrassing me.” He says once, hissing the words at Boxcars as the big man unbuttons his coat to reveal a cheap looking button-up and thick black suspenders. 

“Nah.” Boxcars cracks his knuckles, getting to work on his food. “You’re embarrassing yourself.” 

Droog seethes quietly. Even Slick will wear a suit when Droog tells him to, though he spends most of his time pulling at his collar, itching himself or griping about it. But he acts the same way in his comfortable clothes, so Droog’s simply given up on having Slick behave like a reasonable person. Deuce, of course, wears whatever he’s given. But Boxcars continues to infuriate Droog by refusing to give in even once. 

One of these days, Droog is going to win. Because Droog is going to outlive Boxcars, and when it comes time for the funeral, he’s going to put Boxcars in one of those suits and send him off for style. After all, the dead can’t change out of a suit while your back is turned.


	68. Pair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thespiandeacon asked:  
> A story about Biscuits, because no one cares about Biscuits.

Biscuits wasn’t always part of a pair. There was a time when his name wasn’t always given second, like an afterthought, like a runner-up. 

He’s sure that he had his own goals at some point - ill-formed and undercooked as they might have been. Of course, he’s got new clear ones now (do what Scratch says), but he’s sure he had others before he met Eggs, and they just involved him and what he wanted, whatever that happened to be. 

These days, he doesn’t have much. He’s paired with Egg for everything, even sharing a room. When people talk to them, it’s like they think he and Eggs are sharing the same same brain, so they don’t need to talk to them both, just to Eggs. Even their rewards are one item to split, never separate items. 

It bums him out, but what can he do? He doesn’t like being the afterthought, but he also remembers what it was like before Eggs. He remembers when nobody noticed him. He remembers no rewards, and no conversations, and nobody even calling him by name, just always ‘hey you’ or ‘that guy’. 

So it’s not fair being the least important part of Eggs and Biscuits. But he’d rather be the least important then be nobody at all.


	69. Molt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> "oh boy let’s write about laying eggs and fucking molting" YES. DO IT.

Snowman’s used to other people dealing with her molt. After all, she used to have attendants whose sole purpose was to help her peel off the old shell and properly dispose of it. But exile doesn’t have that option, and she’s forced to deal with it herself for the first time in her life. 

It’s not exactly pleasant. After a few days of hot bath and nail files and fingertips, she finally breaks down and turns to the only person she feels she can trust with this: Stitch. 

Of course, he laughs in her face. She can see him trying not to, but it comes out all the same, laughing at the ugly knobs at her elbows where the shell won’t slough off properly and the way her whole body is just a patchwork of dark new shell and fading old shell. 

“If you don’t shut up-” She starts to threaten, but he calms her down before she can launch into it. And after three hours, another hot bath and some woodworking tools, they finally get her freed from the shell. The bits go into a garbage can, which Snowman plans to dump in the desert. 

“How often do you do this?” Stitch cleans off his tools as she dresses, little bits of black carapace still all over the place. “Every few years?”

“Every six months.” She says, and rolls her eyes when he gives her a look. “Believe me, if I could go longer, I would.” 

“Try find somebody else who can help you deal with it before it’s time. And if not, then don’t pick at the damn thing, and maybe we can get it off in one piece.” He wipes his hand absently on his pants and makes a face as he realizes what he’s done. “I don’t want to be picking shell out of my boutique for half the year.” 

Snowman takes hold of the can and simply leaves, hoping to find somewhere far, far out of the way where she’ll never have to think about it ever again.


	70. One Night Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derples asked:  
> deuces one night stand

Deuce’s approach to picking up people is more successful than it should be, considering that what he does is put his hands on people’s knees and ask them if he can blow them/go down on them. Then again, he does get to the point of things, and sometimes an honest admission of what you want from somebody is what’s desperately lacking. 

The problem is that when the sex is done, so is Deuce. He doesn’t want to stick around and talk about things, or snuggle, or eat breakfast together. He can go home and talk and snuggle and eat breakfast the with Crew, and they aren’t strangers who might do something unexpected or upsetting. 

One good thing about being on the small side is that it’s pretty easy to get out of there before they wake up, and that most windows are easy exit-points for a guy his size. Add in fire escapes, and Deuce almost always spends his early morning heading down the outside of the building, reading to get home and eat some of Boxcar’s cooking. 

There’s only be once when somebody caught him going out the window. Deuce had one leg out when they spoke up. “Hey, wait. Where are you going?” 

Deuce paused, straddling the windowsill. The guy looked confused, like he couldn’t figure out if he was more upset about Deuce sneaking out, or more boggled by the fact that Deuce was going out the window. 

“Um.” Deuce answered, and promptly fell out the window and onto the steel grating. He was on his feet and down the stairs a moment later, leaving behind his one-night-stand to continue to fight between outrage and bafflement.


	71. Anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> luckyspike asked:  
> stabprofs slick/snowman or just regular slick/snowman if that au is too ridiculous
> 
> (Part of Luckyspike's Stabprof's AU - http://luckyspike.tumblr.com/tagged/stabprofs)

Snowman stops dyeing her hair on her 67th birthday. 

It’s not an easy decision to make. For most of her life, she’s been dying her hair black. The shade’s changed over the years as dyes were discontinued and she had to switch to other ones, but it’s always been some variation of black; Dark Black, Dark Night, Midnight Ebony, Raven Wing, nearly every synonym they could think of to describe a shade of black. When she was younger, it was only ever few months, but as she’s gotten older, she’s had to dye it ever few weeks to hide the spreading white in her hair. 

Her birthday party is a small thing; dinner at a semi-nice restaurant with Slick, followed by sex that may be less or more rough than usual depending on how much they have to drink and what they inevitably end up fighting about. She’s settling up for her usual routine of touching up her roots when she looks at herself in the mirror and stops. It hits her; she’s 67. Nobody’s fooled by her hair colour anymore. There was a time, when she was thirty and her first white hairs showed up, when she knew she had to dye or spend the rest of her academic life being viewed as an old woman. 

But she is an old woman now. 67 years old. Most of the other women at the university are grandmothers. Most people her age have retired from their primary career and have moved on to other jobs. Her students certainly can’t tell the difference between her at forty and her at 67. She’s taken care of herself all her life, always exercised, always cared for her skin and teeth. But even with that, even though she looks younger than she is, she still looks too old to still be naturally dark. 

The only person she’s been fooling is herself, and she hates being a fool. Still, it hurts to toss the dye package in the garbage and to walk away, knowing that there’s a thin white line all over her scalp. Slick will likely throw it in her face when he sees her, perhaps even tell her that everyone’s been laughing about it behind her back. She makes a note to think up a few good barbs to throw at him if he does and put him on the defensive. She prepares herself for the worst by thinking up every awful thing he could possibly say.

By the time she arrives at the restaurant, she’s in a terrible mood. Snowman’s done her best to dress up, wearing the black little number that always makes her look good, and a few of the nicer pieces of jeweler she’s bought herself over the years (usually after exchanging whatever gaudy crap Slick got her). Slick’s already waiting there, arguing with the waiter. He’s a perfect example of double standards; he’s taken poor care of himself over the years, and his hair was going grey around the same time as hers, but no one holds him to any standards. He often gets sarcastic applause from Droog for showing up in a wrinkled suit. 

“-FUCK YOU!” Slick’s argument ends with him overturning the stand and storming back. He grabs Snowman’s arm and tugs her. “We gotta fucking move, that piece of shit is calling security.” 

Snowman moves, choosing to grill Slick while they’re on the run. “What did you do? We had a reservation. … Slick, we had a reservation-“ 

“I gave our reservation up for $100. I figured I’d be able to weasel another out of ‘em. But that fucking pissant wouldn’t give a table up- don’t give me that look.” Slick yanks on her arm faster. “It was $100.” 

“Once a year Slick. That’s all I ask from you. Once a year.” She jerks her arm out of his. Of course she’d taken a taxi here, and now that it’s long gone, she can look forward to waiting around in the parking lot for another to show up, since Slick’s ruined her chances of waiting inside. She’s fully pissed now, and she can see Slick frowning, confused as to why she’s reached peek-anger faster than usual. 

For once, he doesn’t make a complete ass of himself. He gets a hand on her hip, his hand brazenly slipping down to sit on her ass. “I’ll call Droog. You know he’s got something lined up as a back up. The bastard will make me grovel for it, but I can always get him back later.” 

“I’m not in the mood to eat out anymore.” This is truth, and she sighs, hating that something as petty as dyeing her hair has her in such a foul mood. It’s not even something she can explain to Slick, because he certainly won’t get it. 

Slick opens his mouth, clearly ready to say something to her she won’t like- and he shuts his mouth without saying a damn thing. “C’mon.” He says instead, tugging her over to his car. “Get in. And don’t ask me where we’re going ‘cause it’s a fucking surprise.” 

Snowman wants to go home, but she gets in instead. Slick turns on the radio to the jazz station and drives. He doesn’t say anything, and in the car, she starts to relax again. The sun sets and the city goes fully dark, headlights and neon signs the only thing in the darkness. 

It takes them an hour to get out of the city, and into the middle of nowhere. Slick takes them off the pavement, onto dirt roads, and finally comes to a stop at the edge of a farmer’s field. “Just wait here.” He says as he gets out, and then wrestles with a barbed wire gate, finally getting it open. They drive into field, moving slowly over the bumpy terrain. 

“If you’re taking me out here to see a body you buried, I’m going to bury you right beside it.” Snowman warns him, and Slick just laughs, shaking his head. “I swear Slick-“

“Nah, that’s not it.” He finally stops, and when he turns off the engine, she realizes where he’s taken her.

The swamp is alive with the sound of frogs. There must be hundreds of them there, croaking and calling out in the night. Her eyes scan the surface of the pond, looking at all the dark shapes her eyes quickly recognize. 

When she looks at Slick, he’s yanking his pants off and throwing them on the seat, along wit his shoes. He gives her a grin, gesturing to the pond. “Remind you of anything? Maybe a certain fucking swamp full of noisy assholes?” 

She doesn’t want to smile, but she does. “As I recall, you were the one best described as a ‘noisy asshole’.” 

“Fuck you!” It’s all in good cheer though. He starts on his jacket and shirt. “I’m going skinny dipping. You can sulk in the car, or you can join me.” 

Snowman looks at the swamp and pulls a face. Oh sure, she’s climbed in plenty of swamps over the years. But that doesn’t mean she wants to deliberately go swimming in one. “I don’t think so.” 

“Come on, do one fucking brave thing for your birthday.” Off go his shorts. She takes a moment to ogle him before responding. 

“I already did.” She hesitates when he glances at her for an explanation, before finally giving it. “I stopped dyeing my hair.” 

Slick stops, stares at her, and then squints. “Is that why you’re being more of a bitch than usual? Christ, what’s the big deal? Now your curtains will match your rug.” 

Snowman’s jaw drops and she chunks her purse at Slick, hitting him square in the nose. He staggers back and she comes around the car, nearly losing a heel in the marshy ground. “You little asshole, I’m going to-“

“Fuck, ow!” Slick’s holding onto his nose, but he gets his hand up to grab hers as she reaches for him, yanking her down into a kiss. She should stay mad. She should knee him in the balls and drive away and leave him naked in the middle of a swamp-

But she kisses him instead. Because of all the shitty things she could imagine him saying, that hadn’t been one of them. And though she’ll never admit to to Slick, it wasn’t an entirely awful joke. At least, not by his standards. 

When they break apart, he tugs her toward the swamp. “Come on. Two brave things then.” 

“I wouldn’t call this brave. Just stupid.” But she unzips her dress all the same.


	72. Close Shave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derples asked:  
> shaving

Spades Slick should not be here. He should not be tied to a chair. And he should not be this close to Snowman with a weapon in her hand. She’s got a straight razor held in those long delicate fingers, the ivory handle resting against her palm. 

Two minutes ago, the bitch was sharpening it on his strope while he struggled in his bounds. The sound had been maddening, the scraping sound curling deep in his ears and sending pulses of fear down his spine. 

He’d cursed at her, swore and cursed into his gag and thrashed about, trying to break his bonds. She had been completely silent, focusing entirely on the razor. More than once, she stopped while sharpening to test the edge, then promptly took it back for more time against the strope. 

It must be sharp enough now, because she’s looking at him like his throat is begging to be slit. Slick tense up as she draws near, trying to squish his neck down so she can’t just cut it open. 

Her fingers tangle in his hair and he curses himself for not keeping it shorter. It should have been short enough to keep her from grabbing hold of it, from wrapping her fingers around it and getting a sharp grip on it. Snowman tilts his head back by force, bending his spine until he’s staring at the ceiling. 

She brings something up against his throat. He thinks it’s the razor, right up until he feels cold shaving cream spread over his skin. Slick hisses and the brush spreads it out along his neck, up over his chin, and then along his cheeks. She has no choice but to get rid of his gag, untying the knot. Slick coughs and tries to jerk his head around, but her grip on his hair is hard enough to tear it out. “F-fuck!”

“Quiet Slick, or I’ll find a more permanent way to shut you up.” She dabs shaving cream along the bottom half of his face, over the stubble on his upper lip and the dark shadows on his cheeks. Snowman drops the brush on the table, wiping her fingers on his jacket and he sneers, right up until the moment she picks that razor back up. She makes sure he sees it, silver glinting in the light. With her hand still holding his head back, she sits in his lap, straddling him. Slick’s breath quickens, the heat of her body against his making it very hard to focus on anything but her. 

The steel is cold, raising goosebumps on his skin as the edge touches it. He’s very still, very silent as she slowly drags the blade up his neck. There’s the sound of the blade cutting through his stubble, the rasp of metal meeting hair and skin, and the cold trail it leaves in it’s wake. She reaches his chin, sliding razor off and flicking shaving cream onto the floor before starting again. 

Her fingers keep his head tilted, knuckles pressed into the back of his skull. He can smell her perfume mixed with the smell of the shaving cream. The blade caresses his adam’s apple and he gets hard. Slick’s breath comes in shallow pulls, fighting not to panic or breathe too deeply. The knife constantly threatens to slit his throat wide open and pour blood all down the front of his shirt.

She’s as silent as he is, turning her face silky smooth with each stroke. It’s uncomfortable having her this close to him, watching her eyes focus so intently on his bare throat. Snowman repeats the steps until his neck is bare, and then she starts on his face. He can see the razor moving now and again, the light glinting off of it as she brings it up for another pass. The scraping sound continues as she takes the whiskers off his cheeks, and off the violent point of his chin. 

Snowman reaches his mouth, and she slides the blade between his lips. “Open up.” She tells him, and he does, fighting to stay still and calm. It’s so fucking hard. Still and calm are things he’s never been good at. But there’s a razor blade resting on his upper lip, pressed against his clenched teeth, and he has no choice but to behave or risk having her lop something off. The straight razor presses down against his lip, and he tastes a little blood and feels just a sliver of pain before she pulls it back. She cleans off his upper lip with two swipes, leaving his face bare and cold and bleeding a little from his lower lip. 

“My my Slick, a shave it all it takes to make you handsome again.” She slips in closer, her breath hot against his skin. Slick groans and she kisses him hard. He strains up to meet her, hands straining against his bonds. There’s nothing Slick wants more in this world than to have his hands on her, and to have that razor pressed against her body for a change. He nips at her, and when she draws back, there’s a splash of blue mixed in with the red. His tongue darts out to touch his lips, and to taste her. She does the same, but slower. Much slower. 

“Untie me.” He stops straining for just a moment, his eyes locked on hers. She’s feeling what he’s feeling, he knows this. Snowman wants to untie him. He just needs to give her a push. “Just think about how my cheek will feel against your thigh.” 

She presses her forehead against his, mouth pulling back into vicious smile. He feels the cold steel press against his wrists. If she slices one way, he’ll be free - another way and he’ll be a dead man. He refuses to flinch, looking her dead in the eye. 

“You’re much more charming when your life’s on the line.” Her tone is amused, and when she cuts, it’s only rope the razor slices.


	73. Riddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> roczath asked:  
> Cans/Clover...? :D Something to bring a smile?

“Night and day.” Cans glances up from his notepad and at Clover, perched on the end of his bed. “Is that the answer?” 

“What falls but does not break? What breaks but does not fall?” Clover sing-songs the riddle to Cans, grinning broadly. “Night falls! Day breaks! Ready for another one?” 

He nods. They’ve been doing this for about three hours now, and though Cans is getting tired, he’s still having too much fun to quit. Cans likes Clover best when he’s telling riddles, since he’s always so delighted to see them solved (and unlike some of his other jokes, he never feels like Clover’s laughing at him). 

“I run but never walk, I’ve got a mouth but never talk, I have a bed but never sleep, I have a head, but I never weep. Who am I?” Clover always has such a wonderful way of telling riddles, finding that perfect rhyming cant that brings a smile to Cans face. 

And for once, he knows the answer to this one right away. “You’re a river.” 

“You already knew that one! I’m going to have to give you a harder one!” He jumps off the bed rail, heading over to Cans and climbing him like a tree. Once he’s settled on Cans’ shoulder, he taps his chim. “Hmm. A hard one. Oh! I’ve got it. Ready?”

“Ready.” He puts his pencil against the paper to write it down. 

“Said as one letter but written as three, two letters there are and only two in me! I’m double, I’m single, I’m black, blue and grey! I’m read from both ends, and the same either way! What am I? Hmm?” 

Cans jots it down, looking it over. This one is going to be a lot harder than the last one. He flashes Clover a smile and starts puzzling it out. For his part, Clover hums up high on Cans shoulder, swinging his little legs as he eagerly awaits an answer.


	74. Overthinking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> You take Problem Sleuth ficlette requests? If so, PI/AD please?

Pickle Inspector stares up at the ceiling, blinking silently to himself. He’s wondering if anyone’s called while he was out, and if he really drank all of the candy corn liquor in his office, and where his underwear is, and if this is worse than the time he got drunk and woke up naked and crammed into a fort with Problem Sleuth and neither of them could remember if they had fucked or just gotten naked. At least this time he’s absolutely certain he had sex with Ace Dick. He just can’t figure out how he feels about it, besides sore. 

Ace Dick isn’t doing any thinking. Mostly he’s snoring and probably not dreaming because his imagination is so shitty that he can’t even daydream. He’s got one stubby arm over PI’s stomach. It’s not much of a deterrent since PI could just roll to the side and escape it, but he’s not feeling really eager to move right now. 

PS is in his office next door. PI knows this because he can hear him yelling at somebody over the phone. He’s very rude and PI isn’t talking to him at the moment because he made a crack about PI’s butt (or lack thereof) when they were getting dressed after the naked imagination fort thing. PI knows he doesn’t have much of an ass, and he certainly doesn’t need anyone to point that out, thank you very much. 

Ace Dick didn’t seem to mind. Then again, AD doesn’t really mind much of anything when he’s had a few swigs of sugar flavoured courage in him. He even put on the radio and they attempting to dance, though it mostly turned into PI dodging AD’s high kicks and punches when PI realized that AD didn’t know how to dance and was just pretending to fight instead. He’d worn himself out, and then he’d tried to order them some whores, and when they wouldn’t send any out, AD suggested they just fuck instead. PI had agreed to that a little too quickly than he would have sober and he’s still trying to decide if the sex was good or bad. 

He keeps on staring up at the ceiling, thinking about how he’ll probably need to go to the bathroom soon and that he should send PS another angry note, and that maybe he should stop drinking before he visits his business rivals, and that also maybe he shouldn’t since there are worse ways to end the night, and that next time he does this with anyone, he’s bringing a blanket over because the carpet in AD’s office is scratchy and rough. 

AD just continues to dream his unoriginal and crappy dreams, snoring against PI’s armpit.


	75. Boneyard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> The Felt finds out about WQ when she's sitting in a room, with bodies all around her.

The Boneyard’s burning down around them, thick orange flames licking the ceiling and the bottles behind the bar popping in the heat, spilling open and flaring up again and again. The Felt doesn’t usually make a example out of other gang’s dens, since that’s usually Slick’s bag. But the Pale Bones brought this on themselves. 

Nobody messes with the Felt and walks away, not unless you’re the Midnight Crew. 

Dead Doublets are lying all over the place, their white uniforms soaked through with blood. Those black spots on the back made a great place to aim and Snowman’s reloading for the forth time that evening when Fin hollers to her. He’s found something in the basement. The place is starting to come down and Crowbar orders them all out. 

All of them, except Snowman. The Universe disregards what Crowbar has to say and snaps the chamber in, heading for the basement stairs. The fire hasn’t reached here yet, but some of the boys have judging by the mess of blood on the stairs. Snowman carefully steps over bodies and puddles on the steps, until she’s finally at the bottom of the stairs. 

The fire’s eating through the floor above them, and the ceiling lights are shorting out. Snowman brings her gun up, ready to see who exactly is the leader of the Pale Bones, the person known only as the Ivory Hand. She’s not surprised often, but of all the people she expected to find here, the once White Queen was not on that list. Her gun stays aimed at WQ, even as her eyes widen in shock. 

WQ’s injured, a bright shock of red leaking from her gut and ruining that rather expensive white suit she’s wearing. The rest of her Doublets are lying dead around her, killed by the shootout, or maybe by WQ if things turned ugly down here. Snowman wouldn’t be surprised if her people weren’t too pleased with the way things went down. 

Snowman’s surprised, but WQ isn’t, and she reaches for her own weapon. There are many things Snowman would like to ask WQ, like how she survived the end of the game, and how she ended up in this place, and why did she carry on their rivalry when there was nothing left to fight for? But the moment WQ reaches for her gun, Snowman puts two in her head, straight through the brim of WQ’s hat. She slumps, the luster in her eyes fading as red runs down her face. 

The ceiling creaks, the big beams splintering as they burn through. Snowman holsters her gun, looking at WQ’s body. It would make one hell of a trophy. But the fire flares and she retreats, teleporting to safety. 

The Boneyard crumbles, embers and smoke spraying everywhere. She stands there and watches it burn to the ground, a thousand unanswered questions dying with guttering flame.


	76. Toothless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Fin goes to the dentist for a check up. Only to get trapped in the dental chair and with a gag in his mouth to keep it open. Worst of all, the Midnight crew are going to 'fix' his teeth.

Half of Fin’s teeth are currently sitting in a basin, Droog’s got a pair of pliers in his mouth and he’s working on the next tooth, but despite all of that, this isn’t even the worse thing currently happening to him.

The actual worse thing is listening to Slick endlessly fuck up the same pun for more than ten goddamn minutes. The tooth pulling hurts but holy fuck, Slick’s constant misdelivery is unbearable.It’s not even a funny pun either, just a shitty one about how all of Fin’s threats are going to be pretty toothless from now, but the stupid fuck can’t figure out how to say. 

He looks up at Droog, begging him with his eyes to just interrupt Slick already and tell him the fucking pun. Droog just looks back at him with dead eyes. That’s when it hits Fin; the Crew has to live with Slick fumbling his fucking puns every day of their lives. No wonder they won’t break under torture if they have to put up with this. 

“Your threats are going to be pretty weak- fuck, no, no, they’re without teeth. Teethless threats. ‘cause you’ve got no teeth in your fucking mouth.” Slick keeps rambling on, and Fin prays for death.


	77. Clever Girl

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thespiandeacon asked:  
> write a fic about snowman turning into a raptor

“You know Doc, not to question your methods or anything, but I’m not sure this was the best decision.” Crowbar said from the safety of the second story floor. The staircase leading up was demolished and while Snowman could jump pretty high, she still couldn’t reach the second story, or get her claws into the balcony to help hoist her up without somebody just pushing them off and letting her fall. 

“It isn’t for us to question Lord English’s actions.” Doc Scratch reminded Crowbar from his place in the chandelier where he’d been thrown while Snowman was maiming him. Stuffing was leaking out of his belly and the place where his right leg had been, but he seemed very unconcerned with this turn of events. “He has a plan.” 

“I’m sure he does. I’m just saying, she was a lot more helpful when she could be reasoned with. And she didn’t try to eat us then.” He glanced down at the wet red remains of at least two Eggs and one Biscuits. Snowman was scarfing down bits at this very moment, ripping flesh and snapping her head back to swallow it, her snout bright red. He still hadn’t figured out how she was keeping her hat on, much less her blood-speckled coat. “I’m not sure how we’re supposed to rob a bank with her.” 

“You won’t be robbing anymore banks. They are no longer necessary.” Doc’s slipping from the chandelier. Crowbar tries to reach out to grab hold of him, but he’s still out of reach. His heavy head is dragging the rest of him down, and only the bits of him snagged on the elaborate ironwork are slowing his descent. “Is is going according to plan.” 

“I can’t see how any of this is a plan- shit!” Crowbar takes one last swipe at Doc before he falls. Down he goes, landing on the floor with a hard cracking sound. His head looks intact, but the rest of him is still. Crowbar glances around, wondering if he can get down there and rescue Doc before Snowman gets to him, and maybe before the bloodstains from Eggs and Biscuits really set into Doc’s suit. 

He’s leaning over the balcony when he notices that Snowman’s not in the main area anymore. Crowbar frowns; they boarded up the exits. She shouldn’t have been able to get out of that small area. Everything else is too high to climb and it’s not like she can walk through walls-

Shit. He turns around, coming face to face with her. Looks like she remembered how to teleport. He stays very still, wondering if he should take his chances with the possibly fatal fall, or hope she’s had her fill. Her mouth opens, showing off those deadly sharp teeth. 

He takes his chances with the fall.


	78. Take Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> murder-in-the-mansion asked:  
> The Felt have turn into little kids. Snowman and the Midnight crew have to take care of them.

For your average adult male, you need to dig a hole that’s at least two feet wide, six feet tall, and then six feet deep if you don’t want wild animals to get at them. This shit is harder enough to do when you’re on dirt, but when you’re in the desert, your hole ends up wider in order to keep sand from constantly falling into the hole and filling it up, so you dig a long wide wedge that goes twice as deep (since a good sandstorm can easily blow around five or seven feet of sand). It’s a lot of work, and usually the Crew has to take turns digging.

Today’s grave is another long wide wedge, but for once, they don’t have to dig multiples. Boxcars is puttering away at it while Slick goes through the Felt’s pockets to see if there’s anything worth keeping. All he finds is junk and the same candy they gave the dumb fucks as a bribe to get them into the van and out into the desert. 

Kids are stupid. They’re also embarrassingly easy to kill. Really, it would feel almost like cheating to take care of them this way, except fuck those time-traveling little bastards. If they’d been easier to kill as adults, the Midnight Crew wouldn’t have needed to kill them as kids. 

Boxcars throws out one last shovel full of coloured sand and wipes away the sweat gathering at his neck joints. “Throw them down here, I’m fucking done with this hole.” 

“Sure, whatever.” Slick shoves Crowbar into the hole, watching him roll down the slope, and the others quickly follow. Boxcars climbs out of the hole, trudging through the sand that’s quick to collapse around him and slide into the hole, doing part of his job for him. Droog and Slick grab shoves and start throwing sand in while Deuce just pushes over piles with his hands until they fall into the pit.

After ten minutes, the sand settles and you can’t even tell that there are fourteen green torsos buried in the sand. Snowman’s missing but that’s fine since they probably can’t kill her anyway. They’ll deal with her when the time comes. The shoves get thrown in the back of the van, which still stinks like knockout gas. 

“Deuce, when we get back, air this fucking thing out.” Slick says before pulling his gas mask on. Deuce nods, waiting for Droog to help him with his mask. 

Slick climbs into the passenger seat, drumming his fingers on the dashboard. They hadn’t really planning on ever successfully killing the Felt, at least not without some loss to the Crew. But all four of them are still standing. There’s really only one thing left to do: kill Lord English. 

And that’s just what they’re going to do, just as soon as the van doesn’t make them pass out too.


	79. Ivory Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> now i really wanna know what WQ was up to...

Tin Top looks nervous. That’s a first. Even in the desert, Tin Top was unshakable in her beliefs and refused to back down from any fight. But she’s looking through the plans and there’s no hiding the hesitation. “You sure we want to do this? We hit them, they’ll hit back twice as hard.”

“If we’re lucky, it’ll only be twice as hard.” High Five mutters from his spot in the corner. He’s been here almost as long as Tin Top, which is why he’s doesn’t go silent when Ivory Hand turns her gaze to him. He does straighten up, hands quickly stuff into his pockets. “This is going to be worse than when the Crew and Stoop Shooters went at it. The Felt’s powerful and they’ve got every unfair advantage in the book.” 

“Why don’t we try our luck at grabbing the Hatchet Gang’s territory? Our numbers are bigger and they’ve got a nice little set up-” Tin Top suggests, stopping short when Ivory Hand shakes her head. 

“We’re as ready as we ever will be. If we wait any longer, we’ll lose our advantage. The Boneyard’s a fortress and our numbers are as big as we can support. Unless we get rid of a major player, we aren’t going anywhere.” Ivory Hand reaches into a jar of walnuts, squeezing her hand and cracking it. Tin Top and High Five have seen her do this plenty of times, but it’s a good reminder to them that she’s more than strong enough to face them down. They all are. 

High Five opens his mouth one last time, and even before he speaks, they both know he’s going to regret what comes out of his mouth. “If you’re doing this to show up Snowman, it ain’t worth it. She’s not like you anymore-“

“You’re right, she’s not like me. She never was.” Ivory Hand drops the shell on the desk. In half a second, she’s behind High Five, her arm slung over his chest and her hand tight on his neck. She lifts him and Tin Top quickly steps back. Tin Top’s not shocked, but she’s seen Ivory Hand do this before in the desert, when things got bad. “But you’re wrong if you think we don’t have a chance.” 

High Five turns his head toward her. The look in his eye makes it clear that he gets it. She drops him and before he hits the ground, she’s sitting in her desk away, brushing the crushed shell into the garbage. High Five gets up off the floor, coughing to clear his throat. He nods; there won’t be any more challenges. 

“Get the others and get this done.” Ivory Hand dismisses them, picking the nut up in her fingers. She’s had enough of skulking in the city’s underbelly, living on scraps and being kowtowed to by the dredges of Prospit’s fallen court. Ivory Hand deserves better; she was meant to rule, or at the very least, meant to be worshiped and feared. 

This whole town knows Snowman’s name. In another few days, they’ll know who the Ivory Hand is and she’ll get the respect she is due.


	80. Trophy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> If Snowman did get WQ's corpse, what does the rest of the Felt think of her getting a corpse trophy that looks almost exactly like her?

Snowman keeps her grim trophy in her sitting room. It’s poised above the fireplace, like a particular morbid conversation piece. Ivory Hand looks like she could be in repose, one hand resting lightly on the bullet wound in her torso, her other arm serving as a pillow for her head. The red stain in her suit is remarkably bright, so much so that Doze is pretty sure it’s not real blood. Fin smelt it once and shrugged, saying he could tell when the whole body still smelt kind of off. Whatever used to preserve the body left it with a musty oak scent that Snowman covers by spraying the body with perfume. 

The whole thing makes it hard to have tea with Snowman in her room, especially when the Ivory Hand’s creepy black eyes always seem to be looking right at him. Doze isn’t a particularly speedy man, but he’s taken to choking down his tea and skipping on the biscuits, trying to get away from Snowman’s dead doppelganger. 

Itchy drags Doze into the room when Snowman’s out, trying to pump him for details. “She’s always got you up here, doesn’t she tell you about the dead broad? You think they used to fuck back when she was the Grand Poobah of Derse? I’d be into that sort of thing if there was some version of me out there in a different shade.” 

“I don’t… ask her. It gives.. me the creeps.” Doze keeps looking toward the door, hoping Snowman doesn’t show up. When he looks back, he finds Itchy trying to open up her jacket. “Itchy!!” 

“What? She’s dead. I’m pretty sure she’d be more fucking angry about being on Snowman’s mantle than having me peep a little.” He gives up when the buttons refuse to open. “I think she sewed this shit shut. Can you believe that?”

“Yes! She… lives with us…” Doze just shakes his head and inches for the door. Maybe he can get out of here before Itchy tries to get into the Ivory Hand’s pants. There are a lot of things he doesn’t mind, but this is officially too much for him. 

“You’re a fucking coward. You think these eyes are glass or what?” There’s a tapping sound, following by something crumbling. Doze does not hesitate or pause when Itchy mutters “shit”, he just keeps on trucking.


	81. Panic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> D'you think it would be possible if you wrote Die having a panic attack w/ crowbar or something? thanks uwu

Thank god he doesn’t meltdown in the middle of the fight. Crowbar’s actually a bit surprised by that. He really expected Die to be utterly useless the moment things when sour, but he isn’t. He’s calm and cold, handing his empty pistol to Crowbar to reload while he shoots with the other. It’s about the least Crowbar can do since he’s full of holes and waiting for Stitch to patch him up before he bleeds to death. Die stays collected, right up until the moment he’s helping Crowbar into the van, and the moment the door shuts, he just loses it. 

Crowbar’s still dealing with the non-fatal wounds in his legs where Stitch clearly said ‘fuck it, I have other people to attend to’ and left Crowbar to suffer with them until Doze isn’t so touch and go and until Trace isn’t holding his own guts in. Crowbar’s still trying to manage people and he doesn’t really notice at first that Die’s no longer calm, but breathing like he’s about to give birth. When glances over, he realizes that Die’s gone pale and he’s deep into hyperventilating. “Oh fuck, Die, what’s wrong? Did you get hit?”

Die shakes his head. As far as Crowbar can tell, the only blood on Die is from Crowbar. 

“Look, just… take a breath. Everything’s fine.” Crowbar tries to calm Die down, but he doesn’t seem to be getting better. He’s breathing even harder and he looks like he’s going to pass out. Crowbar racks his brain, trying to remember what the hell you’re supposed to do when someone’s freaking out like this. Last time he had to deal with this, he just slapped him. Die’s not the kind of guy who responds well to violence though. 

“Look, hey, hey come on, deep slow breaths. Like me alright?” Crowbar’s already been doing those to manage the awful pain he’s in, knowing that he has to be patient and wait for Stitch to get to him. He just keeps breathing, trying to keep Die’s attention focused on him. Die struggles, but his breathing starts slowing down until he’s not gulping at the air anymore. He’s still pale and his hands are shaking, but at least he’s not about to keel over in the van. He’s still racking his brain when Die grabs his hand and clenches it. Well… okay, he can handle that. 

“Just… keep on breathing. We all came out alive.” Crowbar keeps trying to stay soothing. He glances back at Trace, whose clothes are soaked with blood, but he’s not holding his guts in anymore. Doze is in the process of being stitched up, so Crowbar’s not lying when he says everybody’s alive. That’s a relief. “And you did great in there. That covering fire you laid down got us out.” 

Die’s still not looking great, but it’s an improvement. And he can feel his legs itching as Stitch finally gets back to him. It’s a hell of a change from the pain. He’s nearly ready to relax when Itchy leans over the seat, knocking Die’s hat onto the floor. “Yeah way to go fuckface, you sucked less than you usually do.” 

And just like that, Die starts breathing hard again. “Goddamnit Itchy!” 

“What? It was a fucking compliment!” Itchy rolls his eyes, flopping back down in the back. “You know he’s probably faking it so he can play grab-ass with you.” 

Crowbar’s glad his legs are fixed, since it means it doesn’t hurt so much when he kneels on the seat, reaches over it, and gives Itchy the smack he didn’t give Die earlier.


	82. Dersert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Fin makes dinner for the Felt. But what they don't know, is that they are having a short and familiar Derse instead of lobsters.

Crowbar poked the purple bit of rubble on his plate. “Look, not that I don’t appreciate you trying to cook Fin, but I’d prefer something that won’t break my teeth when I bite into it.”

"What kind of shithead says he’s making lobsters when he’s really serving rocks?" Itchy gripes, pushing around the tiny towers and spires on his plate. 

Snowman was already gone. She had left the moment Fin pulled the tiny purple planet out of the pot of boiling water and started smashing it up with a hammer. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Fin was going to pay for this one. 

"No! Don’t!" Die yanks the fork away from Eggs’ mouth before he can stuff a sharp bit into his mouth. "You’re going to hurt yourself!" 

"It’s not that bad." Biscuits mumbles around a mouthful of architecture and broken teeth. Quarters starts hitting him on the back of the head to make him spit it out onto the plate before the dumbshit can swallow any more of it. 

"Fuck all of you, you can cook your own meal next time!" Fin promptly tips the pot of water over the table, promptly splashing everyone sitting around the table and stomps off. That’ll teach those fuckers for running down all his hard work in the kitchen.


	83. Steamed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Droog chatting up his crazy seamstress while slick yells at a flower-cart salesman outside?

The smell of carapace on hot iron isn’t exactly a pleasant one. It’s no less unpleasant than the amount of screaming coming out of Fashion Designer’s mouth. Droog deals with both by slipping a cigarette in his mouth and lighting it, only letting FD’s head out of the clothing press when he inhales and feels his nerves calm. 

FD should be thankful he’s a Dersite, since the way the heat blackened his shell is nearly indistinguishable from the colour he naturally is. Droog lets FD thrash around for a bit before yanking him off the floor and holding him by the press again. He turns the heat up to the next notch. 

"W-wait no, no no no, look I’ll d-do better work next time!! You’ve got my promise! I know who you are now s-so I won’t be rude! I swear! If I’d known about you, I would have never been so rude!!" FD sticks his legs and hands out, trying to keep his face away from the press. He’s got no strength, and Droog easily pushes him closer and closer to the hot surface. "At least change to something I don’t need, like my legs! Not the face, not the fac-AHHHHHHH!" 

Droog closes the press, keeping out of range of FD’s limbs and glances out the door to see what Slick’s doing. He’s supposed to be guarding the door. What he’s actually doing is making short work of some Prospitian with a flower-cart. Who knows what the poor bastard did, but the only reason Slick doesn’t have his knife in him yet is because the man’s managed to keep the flower cart between him and Slick. 

He sighs, opening the press and dropping FD on the ground. “We’ll continue this later on.” 

FD whimpers in pain and Droog heads outside to prevent Slick from leaving a visible body count, and to remind him that when he’s asked to stand guard, that means guarding, not fighting with every idiot who passes him on the street.


	84. Brouhaha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Droog finds Itchy high on caffeine and drunk at a coffee shop. He takes this as an opportunity to ask he about their next heist. But instead they began to gossip and talk shit about their gang.

Droog rarely travels without his deck of cards, but a last minute decision to change his suit jacket means that when he spots the Stoop Shooters rolling up and reaches for his cards, he realizes he’s left his only defenses back at the hideout. They haven’t spotted him yet so he gets the hell out of sight, taking the only exit they aren’t blocking; the door directly behind the counter. The Barista running the place gives Droog a wide-eyed look as he pushes by her but says nothing. 

Her reason for looking so surprised is explained when Droog shuts the door behind him and realizes that he’s not alone. Itchy looks up from his cup of coffee, giving Droog an awkward grin. “Heeeeeey. So, uh, who’s out there now?”

"Stoop Shooters." Droog glances around for a door out. Looks like there’s nothing here, just bags of coffee beans and a few chairs. Fantastic. Now he’s crammed in here with this jackass. 

"Big Red with ‘em?" Itchy asks, Droog shakes his head no. "Snake Eyes?" Droog nods, and Itchy curses. "Fuck. From bad to worse, huh?"

"Don’t talk to me." Droog takes a seat, hoping those assholes leave soon. Of course, knowing his luck, they’ll be here all afternoon. 

There’s silence for a little while, broken only as Itchy sips at his coffee. He keeps looking at Droog like he’s going to say something, and Droog keeps shooting him a glare that says he better stay shut-up or else. Finally Itchy finishes his coffee, setting the cup aside. 

Itchy pats out a rhythm on his knees, barely managing to keep himself busy. Droog’s tensed up, waiting for the inevitable to happen. After an astounding ten minutes of silence and fidgeting Itchy finally explodes into questions. “So when you and Slick are fucking, who tops? Because half the guys figure it’s you, but the other half figure it’s Slick since he’s got that chip on his shoulder. I figure it’s you but also that maybe you assholes just blow each other since that probably starts fewer fights. Or do you guys blow the whole team because I’m not passing any judgments on the amount of cocks you do or don’t stuff into your mouth but you’d probably be great at that-“ 

Another ten minutes pass. When Droog steps out, splattered with blood and carrying a broken chair leg in his hand, the Stoop Shooters take one look at him and wisely decide to pretend they don’t see him as he makes his way out of the store and back home to do laundry before the stains set in.


	85. Voracious Appetite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Boxcars has a thing for vore but can't eat his sexual partners so he just chews up deuce every once in a while

"I got dinner. You fuckers better be okay with pasta because that’s what I fucking wanted!" Slick lets himself in to the hideout, clawing the manhole cover in place before sliding down the ladder. "They changed the fucking meat sauce, dunno if it’s better or not but the guy said he’ll fucking change it back if we don’t like it-"

"Slick, shut up and help me!" Droog snaps at him. That’s when Slick realizes that Boxcars is bent over the table and Droog’s trying to get him to throw something up. Slick drops the bags, gets under the table and hits Boxcars in the stomach until that fucker finally heaves and spits up whatever he’s choking on. 

It’s a heavy thump and Slick doesn’t even have to look to know what happened. “What the fuck did we tell you about putting Deuce in your mouth? You dumb fuck, you’re going to cost us two employees in one go because you can’t find something else to cram in your gullet.” 

Deuce is covered in spit and he coughs as he finally gets air into his lungs. “I-I told him not to walk around with me in his m-mouth!” He pipes up, as if somehow this isn’t his fault at all. 

Boxcars is still coughing, bent over and hacking. Droog’s checking Deuce to make sure he’s okay, and when it’s clear he hasn’t lost any limbs, he smacks both of them upside the head. “Idiots.” 

Slick grabs the bags and drops them on the table, shoving Deuce off so he can set them out. “I swear the fucking god Droog, can’t you stop this shit?” 

"Seeing as they don’t listen to me, I don’t see how this is my fault." Droog icily replies, picking up his food and leaving the room with it. 

"I’M JUST SAYING, THIS ONLY EVER HAPPENS WHEN I LEAVE THE FUCKING HIDEOUT!" He yells after him. Boxcars finishes coughing and sits down, and Slick starts jabbing him. "What’s your fucking damage? You think by now you’d know to stop this shit, or at least fucking learn how to not swallow him alive." 

Boxcars just shrugs. “Sorry boss. He’s a squirmer.”

"I am!" Deuce pipes up. Slick rolls his eyes and sits down to eat before his food gets cold, and before Boxcars can get bored and stuff Deuce in his mouth again.


	86. Fractions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Quarters/Fin, making out in one of their bedrooms (that is locked from the inside). Itchy and Clover listen in.

"So how do you think they do it?" Itchy asks, fiddling with a bit of string he stole from Trace’s room. He’s trying to build a Witches Broom, but he’s having trouble since he can’t actually remember which way you’re supposed to pull. 

"Very carefully!" Clover titters. He’s got his ear pressed up against the door, listening in while Fin and Quarters go to town. 

"Har har. But for real, they’ve got super fucked up mouths. How do you think they fit that shit together?" Itchy tries to pull it all together, only to end up with a knotted strong. He picks that out while musing. "Though Quarters has that forked tongue. I bet that shit feels pretty great no matter where you put it. But that fucking beak’s in the way and how the fuck do you even work around that shit?" 

"I can think of a few ways!" Clover ‘oooo’ softly, and Itchy scotches over to press his ear against the door and listen in. He can’t tell what they’re doing in there, but there are a lot of wet sounds. 

"So-" He quickly lowers his voice when he realizes how loud they’re being. "Do you think Quarters lets ol’ gap tooth jam his teeth around his dick? The beak’s fucking dangerous looking, but those teeth look like they’d really cut you to shreds. I mean, I can get it up when my dick’s in danger, but other fuckers aren’t so great at that shit." 

"Why don’t you peek in and we can find out?" Clover giggles, heading down the hall to the heating vent. He’s in it by the time Itchy catches up, and halfway down the duct before Itchy can stick his head in. 

"I’ve kind of got fucking shoulders and hips." He tries to remind Clover, and when that doesn’t work, he tries to jam himself in. That’s not going to fucking happen, but he has to give it a shot. Just as he’s getting his shoulders bunched right, somebody kicks him. "Hey fucker- oh hi guys." 

Quarters and Fin don’t look too pleased. Itchy notes that Fin’s lip is cut, and before either of them can say shit, he reaches out and presses down on it. Fin tries to smack his hand away, but Itchy is already a few feet back, out of range. “Fuck!” 

"So you got any matching ones under the boxers?" He waggles his eyebrows and then bolts as Quarters lunges for him. By the time those idiots go back into their room, Clover’s going to be in position. And maybe if Itchy does it right, he can climb up the outside of the mansion and go peeking in. He really does want an answer, and this seems like the only way he’ll ever get one.


	87. Change in Management

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> The midnight crew is died. The felt have won. They own this town now. The Felt kills the midnight crew and take over midnight city.

Nothing much changes. The names stay the same, maybe as a reminder of how easily regimes can change and fall. The only real difference is the Felt now have 100% of the take instead of whatever small percentage they had before. 

The Felt still show up in force when they go out, filling up the cabaret and slipping twenties into garter belts or rolling fifteen deep into the dance hall and monopolizing the dance floor and bar. The only difference is that the Midnight Crew never show up to escalate it into violence and everybody goes home happy (mostly anyway - the Felt still fight among themselves but they also break that shit up by themselves). 

The only real change is in the graveyard. The Crew’s got a set of stones that nobody much visits, especially their allies who don’t want to be spotted by the other regular visitor. 

Snowman turns up at least once a week. She’s taken to sitting on Slick’s headstone and smoking cigarettes. His is the only one with the flat top instead of a rounded one and she perches there, legs crossed and unconcerned with any others who enter the cemetery. The Felt don’t bother her when she’s in the cemetery but sometimes they turn up just outside the gates, waiting for her to come out. They don’t mess with the tombstones either. It’s not out of respect, since they’ve happily ruined everything else that the Crew ever had. It’s clear that somebody’s declared those stones off limits, either Snowman or Crowbar or somebody else up the chain. She’s the only one who ever goes near them and only ever Slick’s. 

Other than that, it’s all the same, just with a different management. Mayor Visionary’s still a puppet. The police department is a joke. Crime continues and the rich get rich while the poor get poorer. New gangs jockey for position, trying to get a slide of that pie. The Felt still live in the Desert in that nightmare of a mansion, venturing into town only to drink and eat and dance and rob. It’s still Midnight City, even without Slick around to hold the reins. 

Maybe Slick would be pleased to see his city still thriving even with him out of the picture. Maybe… but probably not.


	88. Nipple Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> "does this one fancy a bit of nipple play?"

"Sure." Sawbuck says. 

Itchy, who’s been throwing out shit and not thinking about it, comes to a tripping halt as his brain backtracks and tries to remember what he said to him. Was it the offer for a blowjob? A reach around? Fucking his fat rolls? Coming in his coffee-

"OH RIGHT, fucking nipple play. You’re into that shit?" Itchy’s been zipping around Sawbuck but now he damn near glues himself to the fat man’s side, leaning in close. "Are they sensitive? Or like a girl’s tits? Because they do kind of look like tits. I could go for a tit-job you know." 

"Focus." Sawbuck takes hold of Itchy’s head and carefully pushes it off of his. "They’re sensitive enough that I like a little play. But not too much. If you twist ‘em, we’ll both end up in middle of nowhere."

"Then I’ll just keep dialing them nips until we end up where we belong." Still, Itchy puts a hand on one of Sawbuck’s breasts. It does feel like a lady’s. It’s kind of nice actually, like coping a feel. "What are you, a B cup? You feel like a B cup." 

"I’ve never had them measured." Sawbuck doesn’t move Itchy’s hand, and he’s still copping a feel with Die walks in and stops short. "Hi Die."

"Heeeey Die. You should come over here and feel Sawbuck’s breasts. They’re like a B cup." He pats Sawbuck’s boob. "We’re also going to do some nipple play shit if you’re into that. Sawbuck is."

"I am." Sawbuck agrees.

Die just turns around and walks out without a word. Itchy shrugs as he starts opening Sawbuck’s shirt. “I guess he’s not into that shit.” 

Sawbuck helps undo his shirt and works on taking it off as Itchy gets down to work. “Not everybody is. Ah, that’s good.” 

Itchy never learned to talk when his mouth was full and he rambles on anyway, not particularly caring if he’s being understood.


	89. Carpet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> What if die actually threw up in crowbars car

"This is why I insisted we put rubber mats in here instead of carpeting." Crowbar is not being smug. He wishes he could be smug. For once in his life, he would like to be right about something and have the opportunity to smugly rub it in someone’s face. 

The problem though is that whenever he’s right, it’s always about something horrible that he still has to clean up after. All he can focus on is the clean-up, which doesn’t leave much time for gloating. 

"Oh shut the fuck up, carpet looked cooler and you know it." Itchy grumbles, his feet tucked up underneath him. Die’s gone grey, his head stuck out the window. Crowbar’s got his felt held up - no point in tucking them under him when they’re already an awful mess. The back rows of the van are complaining and coughing, pushing the windows open to try air it out. 

"We’re coming up on a hill." Quarters yells as he shifts gears and is quickly drowned out by everyone complaining and shoving their feet up as far as they can as the van tilts up. Crowbar keeps his own feet up, doing his best to rub Die’s back and try keep him from throwing up again. 

"No carpet in here ever again." Crowbar says, even as he knows they’ll forget all about this once the van’s hosed out. Just once, he’d like to be right and smug at the same damn time.


	90. Burning For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Itchy begs Stitch to cure him of his STD

It’s Itchy’s third visit to the boutique this week, but this time he’s feeling pretty good that Stitch will give in and give Itchy the meds he needs. 

Stitch doesn’t even bother hiding his eye roll as Itchy walks in. “Answer’s still no.”

"You haven’t even heard me out!" Itchy heads over, jumping over one of the sewing tables and getting between Stitch and his sewing machine. "This is my last visit about this shit, I swear." 

"I already told you no twice. You can say whatever you want but I ain’t fixing you." He tries to move around Itchy, but it’s hard getting around somebody who can dart faster than you can see. "What is it?"

"Okay, here’s my offer. I’ll blow you if you fix me." For good measure Itchy drops to his knees. "Pleeeeease? C’mon you know I’m good for it." 

"The answer would be no even if you weren’t infected. But you’re still fucking infected. I’m not putting my dick in you." He winds up and tries to kick Itchy in the ribs. "Get on out of here."

"Wait! wait wait wait, one more thing!" He gets onto his feet and heads to the other side of the table. "You will definitely want to cure me when you hear this." 

"No I won’t. You’ve pissed me off enough times Itchy. You can learn to live with an itch in your pants." Stitch sits back down on his sewing stool and scoots it up to the machine. "Enjoy living up to your name." 

"If you don’t cure my STD, I will give it to every other single person in the mansion." He didn’t want it to come to this (what a lie, he totally did, but it was worth saving for last because you can’t threat-fuck your way out of every situation).

Stitch openly laughs at Itchy, shaking his head. “That’s your threat? Nobody’s letting you get near their crotch, not when you’ve been in and out of here all week.” 

"Die will. I’ll give it to him and just you watch. We both know half the Felt fucks him when they’re drunk, including you. The guys here aren’t too picky. From there, it’s just a matter of time." Itchy grins at Stitch, placing his palms on the table and leaning forward to look right into his gnarled face. "What do you want to treat, one case, or fifteen?" 

Stitch stops, momentarily aghast before he just slumps right into murderous loathing. “You son of a bitch.”

"Yep! So, hurry it up before you get everybody else down here." He knows when he’s won. Itchy immediately starts stripping his pants off, before Stitch can think of a way out. "Work your magic on my dick!" 

The first magic he works is a pincushion aimed at the unmentionables that has Itchy barely dodges it in time.


	91. The Switch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> 2 felt members switch powers

Doze has always wondered how Itchy managed to make it through the day without becoming a mess of bruises when he was busy pinballing off of every available surface. 

Turns out he didn’t. Doze has no idea if he bruises easier than Itchy or if he’s just still too clumsy with his powers, but he’s just one great big bruise all over. He’s not used to accelerating and walls are always so much closer than they look when he’s across the room and headed for the exit. It’s horrible how much even an inch the wrong way can have him tripping and hitting the floor, or slamming face-first into a door jam. 

Right now he’s sitting in them middle of the kitchen, holding a bag of ice against his burnt hand after he tripped and grabbed hold of the stove to keep from hitting the floor. He still hit it, but got a nice bonus burn to go with his new bruises. Doze keeps the ice against his hand, feeling miserable and desperately hoping this power-switch is temporary. 

There’s a shuffling sound, and Doze watches at Itchy painstakingly makes his way to the kitchen, moving with short, slow steps. He’s got a black eye, which means he probably found out the hard way that you can’t take long strides when you’re moving in slow mo. It’s way too easy for people to trip you. 

"Hi Itchy." He says, and winces at how quickly the words spill out. No wonder Itchy tends to babble. He’s got all this extra time to work with and so much space to fill. "Are you okay?" 

"Fuck you power." He manages, the syllables slurring a little. Itchy hasn’t yet learned that you need to pace yourself, or you can barely be understood. Cramming too many words out at once just leaves you tripping over your tongue. "Fuck switch backs my asshole strangling fucker puppies." 

"Um. Okay." Doze just agrees as Itchy flops down beside him on the floor. He sprawls on the linoleum, resting his chin on Doze’s legs and just staring up at him. Doze tries to pat him on the head, but just ends up smacking him. "Oh I’m sorry."

"Fuck fuck fucking Doze." Itchy snarls and opens his mouth, pressing it against Doze’s thigh. He realizes that Itchy is trying to bite him. He just pushes Itchy’s head off and winces as it thumps on the floor. 

"Sorry…" Doze does not pat him this time. Itchy’s having a hard enough time cursing without making it any worse.


	92. Toothbrush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Fin/Quarters, please?

He starts keeping a toothbrush in Quarter’s bathroom. Oral hygiene is important when you’ve got rows of pearly whites to attend to and he can’t afford to skip his early morning brushing. He also hates getting up early when Quarters is so warm and his bed is both bigger and more comfortable than Fin’s. 

Quarters notices immediately since he doesn’t have teeth to brush. He’s a mouthwash man, garbling and spitting in the sink and occasionally buffering his beak. He doesn’t say much, other than “Don’t get toothpaste everywhere, I’m not cleaning that shit up”. 

Sometimes when he’s in the bathroom brushing his teeth, listening to Quarters snoring in bed, he reflects on the fact that this is the furthest any relationship of his has ever come. He’s dated people, slept in their homes, but never really put anything important there. Hell, he tended to keep a change of clothes in his trunk rather than leaving anything at the house, just in case. And when those relationships broke down, it didn’t matter because he never had to get his stuff back. Now he’s got a toothbrush in Quarter’s bathroom and he sleeps in his best nine nights out of ten. 

Fin doesn’t know what they are exactly. Boyfriends is a word he wouldn’t be caught dead using. But you can’t call it a one night stand when you’ve been repeating that night for months. It’s more than just fucking, but it’s not like he’s going to go out and get a fucking ring. There aren’t any good words for what they’ve got going on. 

"Morning." Quarters rumbles as he steps into the bathroom and reaches around Fin to grab a glass of water and fill it. As he washes out his mouth, Fin scrubs at his teeth and looks at the mirror. Quarters spits into the sink and smacks Fin on the ass. "Move it, I’ve got to piss like a racehorse." 

Fin spits into the sink as well, ducking his head down to rinse his mouth out. He sets his toothbrush on the side of the sink and steps out of the washroom. It’s too early for deep thoughts and he crawls back into bed, sliding into Quarter’s side and basking in the warmth. 

He doesn’t know what the fuck you’d call what he and Quarters have, but it’s more than anything he’s had before, and he’s okay with that. There’s something nice about keeping a toothbrush in somebody else’s bathroom.


	93. Golden Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Crowbar never joins the Felt, but instead becomes the local bartender. Give tip of how gangs work and hint of their next heist.
> 
> (Dress Rehearsal Rag au - http://archiveofourown.org/works/139551)

He mostly misses the money. There was a time when he would have missed the people, but he’s long past that point. Most of his old friends are dead or disappeared. You don’t get to retire, not unless you’re exceptionally lucky, or of so little use that you’re not even worth putting a bullet into. 

It’s not all bad. He lives above the bar and gets cheap rent, and he only has to walk downstairs to go to work. People don’t make conversation with him, not once they get a look at his face. The corner store is open right until the bar opens, so he’s got plenty of time to do his shopping before work starts. The pay’s shit, but what can you do? 

His ma’s upstairs sleeping. She sleeps a lot these days. She doesn’t remember things all that well anymore. Cra’s always got to keep an eye on her in case she leaves the stove on or tries to leave the apartment in her nightgown. His sisters offered to take her, but she wanted to stay with him. Truth be told, he wanted her to stay with him too. She’s about the only thing left worrying over. 

There used to be a mirror behind the bar. Some asshole broke it during a fight and Cra didn’t bother getting it replaced. It’s easier that way. He doesn’t have to look at his own face when tending bar and be reminded of the shit job he did trying to kill himself. It’s amazing how they can piece you back together if you don’t blow your brain out or sever your spine. He can even speak, sorta, if he goes slow. 

Sometimes young punks come in looking for a fight. They’ve heard of Cra and they’ve got something to prove. You can always spot ‘em a mile away, dressed in the fashions of the day, walking like they’ve got bowling balls in their pants. Some of ‘em know who he was. Most of ‘em just peg him as the ugliest bastard in the place and figure he’s the one worth taking on. Cra holds his own against them, but week after week, month after month, the kids get bigger and faster, and he isn’t getting any younger. 

When he scrubs the bar or mixes a drink or listens to someone whine about how terrible their life is, he dreams about what he’ll do when his ma passes on. He’s already got it planned. Cra’s going to dress her in her nicest dress, the blue one with beading that he wouldn’t let her sell even when they needed money to fix his face, and he’s going to put on his suit. He’s going to bring her bed down here so she’s got somewhere comfortable to lie. And then he’s going to tip out ever bottle of booze over the floor and light a match. 

He’s already dead. Cra died up on that rooftop when he put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger. The only thing keeping him going is momentum, and sooner or later, that runs out. Sometimes you just peter out. Other times you have to hit that wall. His ma’s doing her best at the former, and when she comes to a stop, he’ll be right there beside her.

When he was little, he wanted to travel to the stars. But he can’t go to them, not now, not ever. He’ll just have to bring their light and heat to him.


	94. Pulp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> can we get some friendly interactions between Die and Crowbar? or even fluff, if you don't mind..

There are a few good places to hide in the mansion when Crowbar needs a break, and Die’s room is among them. It may be one of the creepiest rooms he’s ever been in, but there’s no denying that Die has some of the most comfortable furniture in the entire mansion and he always has a little something to help Crowbar relaxed. 

Today, they’ve got a towel against the bottom of the door and the window’s shut tight as they hot box. Getting high isn’t something he does too often, but once in a while you just need that extra little push to unwind. Die, who’s usually a nervous wreck, tends to be better company when he’s high. Or maybe Crowbar’s just a lot more tolerant when he’s not in a sober state of mind. He doesn’t really care which it is, so long as he can lounge on the couch and smoke. 

"No no no no listen to me, Professor Malevolence was a misunderstood character. Who says he wants to end the world? Not him! It’s the League of Thirteen who are always telling Kvva Krava that he needs to stop the Professor. Don’t you think that’s suspicious? I mean, League of Thirteen? That’s not a lucky number. And the Professor hates his name, he says as much during the Mystery of the Bog Bodies." Die has been trying to convince Crowbar of this for at least an hour now. 

"But in The Little One Said, he successfully kills the prime minister and replaces his with his figurehead. He openly admits to that when Krava catches it. Plus he’s the one who’s always trying to bring about the Endless Winter. He’s not a good guy.” He takes another hit off the joint, holding the smoke in for as long as he can stand before exhaling with a few coughs. 

"But the Endless Winter might not be a bad thing! Even among the 13, some openly disagreed with Minister Quav’s decision to push back the cold another year." Die is turned in a way that Crowbar thinks would be uncomfortable to most people, back on the couch and legs up and hanging over the back. He inhales, pausing in his argument to really let the smoke settle into his lungs. Die’s better at this than Crowbar since he doesn’t cough when he exhales, mostly anyway. "He’s trying to restore the balance of an already deeply fucked system. You can’t blame him for that." 

"Endless Winter, Die, not just winter for a few months. Endless. Forever winter. The whole point is that he’ll starve out any who don’t follow his lead and get access to all those strains of plants that he’s made winter-conditioned." Crowbar takes the joint back and tucks it in the corner of his mouth. "That’s still evil."

"I didn’t say he was good, just misunderstood." Die points out with a giggle, and then they’re both off, sounding more like a couple of boys than full grown men. "He was the hero in An Ocean of Cruelty." 

"Alright, I’ll give you that, he was reasonable there. But that was the exception, not the rule." Crowbar wishes he’d brought more of his pulp novels with him. It would be nice to lend them to Die so they could talk more about other stories they liked and less about whining about the other members of the Felt. "His assistant was very attractive, that’s another bonus." 

"His assistant? The one with the blue skin and the bug eyes and the little…" He holds his fingers up, making antenna with his fingers. Crowbar nods and Die rolls his eyes. "Of course you think that’s attractive." 

"Shut up, she is." Crowbar kicks Die when he gets another eye roll. "Fuck you, you think the Professor is attractive."

"He is! It clearly says so in the actual stories! They didn’t draw him handsome looking on the covers by accident!" Die is perhaps a bit shriller than he has any right to be. He certainly has no room to judge Crowbar, whose pick was at least not actively evil. Plus the Professor just looked scummy. 

"We both know the truth, but tell yourself whatever you need to." Crowbar patronizes him and takes another hit, ignoring when Die mutters ‘bugfucker’ under his breath. Well. Mostly ignoring. Maybe kicking him a little while holding smoke in his lungs.


	95. Sticky Situtation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> luckyspike asked:  
> anything stupid with slick and snowman, possibly femslick, about them being really dumb and special together and i want them to kiss on the face and also possibly fuck maybe with maple syrup involved? thank you coz bless you

There is nothing sexy about maple syrup. Snowman could have told Slick this if she’d had any warning. Of course, she doesn’t get any warning and realizes a little too late that Slick has not gotten something sensible from the kitchen to lick off of Snowman’s thighs, but has covered them in syrup and is finding out the hard way that syrup is a bitch when it begins to dry. 

This is partly Snowman’s fault. She should have known better than to let Slick pick something, but she made the unfortunate decision to trust that Slick would choose something that was both tasty and perhaps not about to glue Snowman’s thighs to Slick’s cheeks.

Slick attempts to tear herself away from Snowman. Their shell is stuck together by the syrup and all Slick manages to do is headbutt Snowman’s crotch a couple of times. Snowman is too embarrassed and mortified to do much other than press a pillow against her face and scream into it while Slick keeps trying to free herself. 

Only when she’s vented does Snowman begin the awkward business of teleporting them to the bathroom and trying to run water into the bath. Slick snarls and struggles from her spot between Snowman’s thighs as the water rushes up against her face. “You fucking bitch, if you drown me right now-“ 

Snowman shoves her thighs flat and submerges Slick. While she waits for the syrup to melt under the hot water, she listens to the soothing sounds of Slick raging underwater and thinks about how much worse it could have been. After all, Slick also likes how Tabasco sauce tastes.


	96. Frills

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thespiandeacon asked:  
> stabdads au where droog has to get a dress from fd for aradia

Some of Aradia’s earliest memories are of Pins and Needles, and those large racks of clothing, and father fighting with FD. She had quite liked plunging into the racks and pretending she was moving through dense jungles, looking for temples lost beneath the overgrowth, full to the brim with mysterious and well preserved artifacts. 

She’s a bit too old for that now, and instead she’s forced to wait for the usual arguments to end out in the open. Aradia has no interest in following in her father’s footsteps and seeing how he resolves his conflicts isn’t all that interesting even if it does tend to involve FD screaming a lot and an endless series of promises that he won’t do whatever’s displeased father again. 

Aradia gives up on reading when father starts digging the stitching awl into FD’s finger joints and he gets too loud to drown out. She tucks her book away and leans against the counter. “Can I go to the cafe next door and get something to drink.” 

"In a moment. I’m still talking with FD about the ruffles he saw fit to put on your dress." Father keeps digging the awl into FD’s hand. Aradia sighs heavily and sits back down, waiting for the screaming to hurry up and be over already.


	97. Seves and Sixens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowbar and Die powerswap based on the following drawing by Tricotee: http://tricotee.tumblr.com/post/42822731458/this-was-really-weird-to-draw-ok-did-this-because

He’s going to do it. Crowbar is going to beat Cans with his crowbar. Maybe he’ll even beat him to death and let the cueball figure out what to do. Cans is enough of a pain in the ass, always fast talking and being a shithead, but this is the last straw. 

That’s the plan anyway, right up until Die shows up. Crowbar hates basically everybody in this gang except for Die, and that’s only because he’s the least awful of them all. But even though he’s the least awful, he still hates it when Die shows up, because that means he’s about to get told that he can’t do whatever he’s planning on doing. 

"What? What is it this time? You know he’s spent the whole afternoon sending everybody an hour in either direction right? The only person who’s got it good is Clover and that slouching asshole’s busy being smug about how he keeps being displaced to the right time periods." Crowbar keeps smacking his crowbar against his palm, thinking about how satisfying it would be to bring this down on Cans head. He’s earned it this time.

"Midnight Crew’s showing up in about an hour. If you stop Itchy, there’s going to be a massacre." Die holds up a pair of pins he’s clearly just taken out of his doll. Crowbar can see them a little too clearly from here; 2 and 9. They could live without Doze, who’s only real purpose seems to be keeping Clover company, but they need Stitch. Without him, they won’t be able to heal up. Sure, they might save on food, but that will all mean nothing the next time anybody gets shot in the face. Die just lets this all set in, patiently waiting for Crowbar to react. 

Crowbar grumbles and lets his crowbar hang down. He could pump him for details but he doesn’t actually care. “Fine. Can I hit him after the Midnight Crew have left?” 

"I’ll have to see when we get that far along." Die slips his pins into his sleeve, along with the others nestled there. There’s a pin for everyone, even Snowman, though Crowbar can’t think of a single reason why anybody would have one of those. Going to the end of the universe doesn’t sound fun… unless there was nobody there. Then a little peace and quiet might be nice. God knows Crowbar could use some now and again. Crowbar shakes out of his thoughts when Die pats him on the arm, giving him a friendly smile. "Don’t let him get to you." 

"That’s easy for you to say. You can leave when he’s being obnoxious." Crowbar glowers, but Die just shrugs, his head nearly disappearing into his large collar. "One of these days, it’s going to be his pin and I’m not going to back down." 

"I know. But if his pin goes, all of ours follow." Die slips the doll away in his coat and walks off. Crowbar shivers a little. Sure, he likes Die best of everybody, but he’s still kind of creepy. Nobody should be that cheerful when they’re constantly running into dead versions of their friends. 

Still… what he wouldn’t give to maybe borrow that doll for a day and go watch Cans die a few times.


	98. Partners in Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crowbara asked:  
> crowbar/snowman/slick au where they are all partners in crime...

Two minutes, twenty-seven seconds. It’s a new record for them, and it comes at a cost. Slick’s bleeding all over the front seat and Snowman’s passed out in the back, a cold towel over her forehead. Crowbar’s doing best out of everyone, and even that’s pushing him to his limit. He’s an alright escape driver, but today he’s had to be one of the best, pulling sharp turns in a van that wasn’t ever meant to go more than 55 mph down a straight stretch. 

But they did it, and as soon as he’s safely in the garage, Crowbar gets out of the driver’s side and comes around to the passenger, yanking Slick out and ignoring how he cusses Crowbar out. He puts him down on one of the worktables and strips off his jacket and shirt until he can get access to the wounds there. “Thanks for taking that clip for me.”

"No fucking problem, I love getting shot. It’s real fucking fun." Slick snarls, sweating about as hard as he’s bleeding. Crowbar grabs his usual case of tools, rolling it out and selecting pliers. For once, he’s not killing with them, just trying to heal. Not that it matters much to Slick, who curses him all the same. "Fuck! You fucking cunt!" 

"Watch your mouth. Snowman will smack you if she hears that word coming out of your mouth." Crowbar pulls the lead out of Slick, dropping the smashed bullets on the bench. There’s lots of blood, but as far as he can tell, nothing vital’s been destroyed. He stitches Slick up, waiting until he’s done before he gives him any whiskey. This is hard enough without thinning his blood while Crowbar’s at work. He bandages him up and wipes his bloody hands off on Slick’s ruined shirt. "Looks like we’re stuck with you for another day." 

"You can’t get rid of me this fucking easy." He takes a gulp of whiskey and nods to the van. "Make sure she hasn’t bled out and cheated me out of my revenge." 

"If anyone will be cheated of their revenge, Slick, it will be me." Snowman opens the back door and steps out, one hand holding the towel over her head. She’s a little unsteady on her legs and Crowbar hurries over, offering her something to lean on. It’s obvious Snowman’s in a bad state or she wouldn’t be so eager to take his help. "We’ll just have to postpone our inevitable showdown another day." 

"Sure, ‘course, you need the rest don’t you? I’m ready to go but it wouldn’t be fair." Slick talks big, but Crowbar can see the worry in his eye as Snowman gets closer to him. Thankfully he stays put instead of jumping down and pulling anything. "Y’know, since you’re so delicate and all." 

Snowman slaps Slick’s stomach and he curses hard, doubling over from the pain. Crowbar helps her sit on the workbench beside Slick. He’s glad to see she’s not bleeding. There was some real worry that she wouldn’t be able to handle teleporting the whole vehicle into the vault, especially with all of them in it, but she had, and she’d even helped shove some of the cash in, before she’d had to lie down as she passed out. It had been a gamble, but it was a worthwhile one. The van was full of enough cash and gold bars to put a nasty dent in the economy and shake this town to it’s core. Soon, New Prospit would fall, and Midnight City would be the only city worth anything in on this shitty little planet. 

"Fucking bitch." Slick finally spits out and sags against Snowman. She lets the remark pass, and Crowbar sits up on her other side, just setting a hand on her knee. Usually by now, they’d be all undressed, but he can’t imagine Slick and Snowman feel like doing anything in bed other than sleeping. 

"You want me to find you something?" He asks her, fully prepared to go hunt up some painkillers or gin or something. Snowman just slowly shakes her head and puts and arm over Crowbar’s shoulder, pulling him close to her. Well then. Apparently what she needs is just a little physical contact. 

Crowbar waits for them to get a hold of themselves, already thinking ahead to what they’ll do with all this cash when they get back to Midnight City.


	99. Sleeping Patterns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> crew member/crew member morning after

The worst part about sleeping with Slick is that he’s still there the next morning, and he always sleeps in late. 

Droog could avoid this by going to Slick’s room on those occasions when they hook up, but he refuses to step foot in that rathole Slick calls a room. The floor is constantly covered with a mix of filthy clothes, crumpled paper and knives, and the first (and only) time he tries sleeping in that bed, he found half a deck of cards mixed up in the sheets and woke up with a bunch of sharp objects all against him.

So Slick comes to Droog’s room when they fuck, and he stays in Droog’s bed until at least noon. Droog is an early riser, preferring to be dressed, fed and through the newspaper by 8am. He then likes to retire to his room and catch up on whatever tasks he has left before they embark on whatever Crew business they have for the day; heist, gig at the club, mess with the Felt or whatever else is on their plate. 

Except he can’t do any of that when Slick sleeps with him, mostly because Slick is prone to throwing things when he’s disturbed while sleeping. He never throws his own things of course, choose instead to throw the items on Droog’s beside table. Or when he does throw his own items, they are inevitably knives. 

Droog’s left with two choices when he wakes up with Slick in his bed. Either he can lay there, bored out of his skull, and wait for Slick to wake up. Or he can wrap Slick up in the sheet, drag him into the hall and dump him there. But if he does that, he has to lock his door and that inevitable ends with an angry and tired Slick bitching at him for the rest of the day and usually replacing the door after Slick vents out his frustration on it. 

Of course, he could also not sleep with Slick and not have to choose between those two. The thought is briefly considered and then dismissed. For all of Slick’s downsides, the sex certainly isn’t one of them, particularly when it’s just so convenient. Laziness informs many of Droog’s choices, particularly when it comes to his choice in partners, and there is no choice easier for him to make than the one who constantly lives just down the hall.


	100. Feedback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> The felt are being murdered one by one, nobody konws whos is doing it, the most recent death was the violent manslater of there leader lord english. the onley resion that they konw is that they where sent a vidio type of his murder, the body coundent be found anyware. The last felt members gose to a art gallery, and finds where all the bodys of there allys where taken..

There is a moment of silence when they reach the end of the paper and everyone considers it. 

“I had no fucking idea he could write. I figured he was illiterate.” Trace remarks, tapping the paper. “That’s like, I don’t know, grade four or grade five level writing. There’s a plot and everything.” 

“Violent manslater. That sounds like something you’d name a really lame villian villain. The Violent Manslater. Look out, it’s the Violent Manslater! He’s going to grab all the men and turn them into slates!” Itchy grabs Doze’s arm, getting into it. “Somebody save me before he slates my precious manly body!”

“What the fuck’s a vidio? Anybody know what that’s supposed to be? Vidio?” Fin’s question is left unanswered as they all pick out their own favorite bits. 

“It’s not a bad story. Juvenile, yes, but there actually appears to be a real mystery at work. The art gallery could hold a great deal of symbolism-” Sawbuck’s attempts to approach the work seriously come to a sudden end when he’s ‘accidentally’ hit in the head with a spoon and jetted off to who-knows-where in the timestream. 

“Stop it.” Crowbar gives Fin a hard bump with his crowbar. “Now you’ve all had your fun, hand the copies back before he shows up.” 

The Felt hand in the papers reluctantly until Crowbar’s got the whole stack in his hands again. Trace leans over the table, raising an eyebrow. “You worried we’ll hurt his feelings?” 

“I don’t think much of anything hurts his feelings, but I don’t need you picking fights with him. If he wants to write, that’s his business.” He tucks the papers under his arm and heads off, presumably to give them back. 

Biscuits watches him go from his hiding place in the closet and presses his eye against the door, watching the others talk about his writing. He grins, so pleased to see that they actually read it. Maybe next time he’ll ‘forget’ his other manuscript where Trace can find it. It’s always good to get feedback.


	101. Knife To Meet You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> xenontrioxide asked:  
> aughuaha.... can i request... fem!slick/snowman and some uh. knife. play.

Slick always has another knife on her. It doesn’t matter how many you take off of her, she always has another one. Even if you strip her naked (and Snowman has done that more times than she can count), even if you pin her wrists down and touch her until you’re sure you’ve covered every last inch of her and found no knives, she will always have one left over somewhere. It’s like a magic trick, but instead of asking Snowman if this was her card, it’s busy trying to gouge a permanent mark in Snowman’s shell so all others know Slick was here first. 

Sometimes she doesn’t mind Slick’s strange little talent. She knows Slick won’t actually kill her, not because she doesn’t want to, but because Slick simply can’t. Snowman dies and the universe dies, and while Slick may hate her more than anything else in this world, she doesn’t hate Snowman so much that she’d kill herself in the process. But she’ll hold a knife to Snowman’s throat when they fuck and she’ll cut her just enough to make her moan and she’ll run the flat of the blade along Snowman’s soft parts, letting the cold steel excite them both. 

She is not afraid when Slick’s knife cuts a little too deep or when there is a flash of real anger in her eyes or a sneer on Slick’s lips that promises nothing but pain. Her effigy is lined with delicate stitches and each time after Slick gets careless with her knifework, she visits the boutique to see Stitch’s work. You can’t see the stitches, but you can feel them if you know where to run your fingers. If he resents her for keeping him so busy, he never says it to her face. He just leaves her effigy hanging there for her to see, proof that he is the most talented man on this world with a needle, able to sew skin and shell together without leaving any mark. 

It infuriates Slick when Snowman sheds her clothes and she sees that all her handiwork’s been undone. Her eyes narrow and her jaw sets and she is truly beautiful then; beautiful like a natural disaster; beautiful like a death toll; beautiful like an open grave. Snowman welcomes Slick and her knives into her bed and into her body, and no matter how many scars she leaves, there are never any to be found when she’s finished, and no matter how many knives Snowman takes from here, there is always one more waiting to find its way into Snowman’s body.


	102. Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> can you do another power switch with crowbar and die and "die" teaching "crowbar" about the occult
> 
> (sequal to Seves and Sixens)

Crowbar doesn’t like stepping into Die’s chambers. The other guys have rooms, but it doesn’t feel right to call what Die lives in a set of rooms. Rooms suggest something lived in and welcoming. 

Die’s chambers are divided up into a bedroom with a door that’s always closed in a main area that is so neat and tidy that you could eat off the floor - not that you’d want to once you knew what happens up here. Where others have couches and coffee tables, or a bar and a big radio, or just something personal, Die has shelves with neatly organized books and occult shit and some big ass intricate circles painted on the floor and ceiling. It gets Crowbar’s back whenever he steps inside and though he’s got no reason to be afraid of somebody like Die, he ends up clutching his crowbar tight. 

There’s a plain wooden chair sitting in the circle, draped with a white sheet. Die gives Crowbar an apologetic smile and moves it away. There’s a dark stain in the wood below and in this room as neat as a fucking church, it sticks out like a grotesque sore thumb. “Sorry, I haven’t gotten time to clean that up. I’ll need to repaint the circle once I get that stain out and I don’t even need to tell you how dangerous it is to leave half a summoning circle.” 

Crowbar gives Die a tight, weak smile. He does, actually, because Crowbar doesn’t know a thing about this voodoo black magic shit that Die’s into He’s avoided it like the plague and he would have kept doing that too, except Doc said he should learn about it. “It’s important,” she said to him, lounging on her desk in her green tux, those white eyes boring right into him, “your job is to know these men inside and out. This includes Die.” 

If he thought his crowbar would work on her, he might be tempted to use to to get out of this. But nothing works on her, and he’s standing here in Die’s chambers instead, watching the shorter man pull the sheet off the chair and fold it up, putting it on a nearby shelf with preserved creatures caught in glass and murky fluid. 

“Why don’t you take a seat here, and I’ll begin?” Die offers the chair. The legs are stained red with what is clearly blood. It’s an old stain, more rust than red, and Crowbar reluctantly sits, his crowbar going straight into his lap. Die heads to the bookcases, pulling on a pair of gloves before picking up a small tarnished crown, the silver eaten away by black. He carries it over to Crowbar, nodding to his hat. “Could you please remove that?” 

“I don’t want that on my head.” That’s not something that negotiable, and when Die doesn’t step away, Crowbar gets the hell away from the chair and the crown. “I asked you to teach me, not experiment on me.”

“The best way to learn is by doing. I assure you this is harmless. I’ve worn it many times myself.” Die tries to coax him in. But Crowbar can see the mitts on his hands and the blood on the floor and all those things on the shelves, and he heads for the door, opening it up and stepping out-

-and right into Doc S. She puts her glove-covered hands on his shoulders and turns him around, pushing him gently back into Die’s chambers. “That’s enough of that. Sit down and let him train you.” 

There are no alternatives given by Doc S. There never are. She shuts the door behind Crowbar, locking it from the outside. Crowbar shuffles over to the chair, taking his hat off and setting it on the floor with his crowbar, giving up both with the same delight he would show getting his teeth pulled. “Fine. Kill me already. Death’s your thing.” 

Die gives him a sad sort of smile. “I don’t deal death - I merely live in the same moments as her.” And with that, he drops the crown on Crowbar’s brow and the world begins to glow.


	103. The Voodoo That You Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Can you do some more of Die/Crowbar and Die tries to convince him to help sacrifice a chicken (Creepy voodoo explaining shit)

“When you said you wanted help with dinner, this isn’t what I had in mind.” Crowbar looks at the animals waiting in their cages. He would never consider himself squeamish, but it’s one thing to know you’re eating something that was an animal and another thing to look that same animal in the eye while it’s still alive. 

“Well it’s still helping me with dinner. I need somebody to help me pluck the feathers and butcher them when the ritual’s done.” Die sounds indigent, but he pretty much always sounds indigent. He’s got the kitchen cleaned up spic and span, so clean that you could eat right off the floor, and now he’s sharpening his knife with those same quick indigent motions. “You said you were fine with butchering.”

“Butchering sure, but… sacrificing is… different.” He frowns, looking at the bowls on table. “I don’t know much about voodoo-“

“More like you don’t know anything.” Die mutters under his breath. Crowbar ignores him. 

“-but isn’t it rude to make a sacrifice and then eat it? Doesn’t it belong to the… thingy?” Crowbar struggles to remember the word. His substitute just gets a nasty look from Die. “I don’t know all this stuff!” 

“Loa. The sacrifice is for the loa. And we’re offering the blood, not the whole chicken. Anyway, the loa hate waste. They appreciate sacrifices where nothing goes to waste. Hand me the first chicken.” Die holds out his free hand, snapping his fingers when Crowbar isn’t quick enough. “Come on!” 

“Just calm your britches.” He gets the chicken out of the cage, holding tight to it’s legs. The hen’s none too pleased and she makes all sorts of sounds, flapping her wings hard. Even though she’s a flightless bird, he still has a hell of a time trying to keep a hold on her. “Fuck, Die-“

“Do I have to do everything by myself?” Die yanks the bird from Crowbar’s hand, quickly flipping her upside down over the bowl and slitting her throat in one smooth motion. The blood spurts out, spraying all over the bowl and slightly on the table. The flapping goes on for much longer than Crowbar would have though and it’s a relief when it finally ends. Die thrusts the dead bird at Crowbar, quickly cleaning the blade. “Get me the next bird.”

Crowbar looks at the cages full of birds. There’s at least one bird for every Felt member. That’s at least another fourteen chickens to slaughter. “Nope.”

He dumps the dead chicken in the sink and walks out, ignoring the angry squawk from Die. “Well fuck you too! I’m not making an offering for you!”


	104. Compliment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> what if they really do change sex only it's to be the same sex as their crush because homosexual reproduction only.

Her reaction when Crowbar drops his pants is an arched eyebrow. “That’s new.”

“Yeah well… it’s complicated.” He feels very exposed but he slides his trousers off all the same, pausing to pick them off the floor and fold them. “I can explain it all but it’s a long story.” 

“We have time.” Snowman says this, but she’s down to her underwear and he really just wants her to take the rest off. She’s so goddamn beautiful right now. Well, one positive to being down a penis is that all he has to do is cross his legs to make it a little less obvious that he’s thinking with his genitals and not his brain. 

“Well uh my species is exclusively homosexual. And when we find someone we want to uh. Mate with. Our bodies arrange themselves to compliment them.” His cheeks are burning up right now but he does his best to sound composed and like this is something that’s he’s done before. “It’s perfectly natural.” 

“I see.” Snowman carefully sets her hands on his thighs and parts them. By the time she’s finished studying him, there’s no hope of hiding how aroused he feels. She nods to him. “Fascinating.” 

“So… what about your culture?” Crowbar would cross his fingers if it wasn’t so obvious. “Are you fine with homosexual encounters?” 

“Of course. You’re hardly my first one.” She gives him a smile and before he can ask her to elaborate, she leans forward to give him a kiss.


	105. Alone In The Universe Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How long will I have?"

"How long will I have?" The Banished Quasiroyal asked as she read over the contract. Her ability to read it was somewhat hampered by the white text on white paper, but if you turned it to the light just so, she could make out most of it. 

"All the time in the universe." Doc Scratch waited patiently for her to sign. The Quasiroyal took her time, unaware that the man might want her to perhaps go faster. She was not someone who was rushed, ever. 

"And how long is that exactly?" She changed pages, following lengthy clauses and putting them in order in her head, like a bloodhound tracking a body that’s been cut into pieces and scattered. "A few years or a few centuries." 

He tells her when the universe will end. It’s more than a few years but less than a few centuries. She could say no and leave, walk out of this opulent green room and back into the desert. There would be people, eventually, and some sort of settlement once there were enough people to build and defend it. She could find a place there and go to work as if she were one of them, as if she were ordinary. 

"That will be enough. Pass the pen." She holds out a hand. He hands her an elegant fountain point pen. It’s full of regular ink and as the point scratches the paper audibly, her name unfolds in bold black. When she finishes the last flourish, the white letters seem to glow for a moment, sparking with green and yellow, then fading so quickly that she almost believes she imagined it. 

Doc Scratch rolls the contract up and slips it inside his jacket, offering her an arm. “Excellent. I’ll take you to your new accommodations.” 

She takes his arm and lets herself be lead down green halls to her new home, past rows and rows of ticking clocks all counting down her end. 

—————-

Snowman always feels cold. That’s what happens when you bleed to death though. You get cold. Or maybe it’s what happens when the universe is ripped to pieces. She’s not sure. Those two things happened at the same moment and she isn’t sure if what she feels is the result of one or the combined misery of both. 

She thought that there would be an end to this when death came. Her body had perished and the universe had exploded outward, and yet a part of her remained, stuck between an empty shell and a trillion dead stars. 

All the time in the universe, he’d promised her. She had asked how long that would be and he had told her when the universe would end. At the time, she thought that was an answer. Too late, she understands that he had given her an answer, but not the one she had asked for. 

Time doesn’t end. Time keeps moving, with or without a universe to mind it. 

She’s always so cold. The stars don’t burn any longer and her body is gone, lost when the universe collapsed, but she still feels a numbness where her fingers were, where her toes might have been. There are no clocks note the passing of time. The silence is deafening and she misses the steady ticking that once filled the halls of the mansion. 

Doc Scratch was gone, discarded now that his purpose was served, but she knew he would laugh if he was still here to see her, or what remained of her. How long did she have? 

All the time in the universe.


	106. Cold One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> THE WORLD NEEDS MORE CROWBAR/DIE. ANYTHING. EVERYTHIG. DO IT NOW.

He likes Crowbar best like this, when no one else is around to interrupt him and Die and send Die packing once again, when there are no lectures or awkward attempts to convince Die to be more “sociable” with the other. They can just lie together in silence, Crowbar’s arms sometimes loosely around Die, sometimes Die’s arms tight around Crowbar’s chest. 

There’s gunfire outside and the smell of something burning but it’s all far away to Die. He stays curled on the kitchen floor with Crowbar, resting his head on what remains of Crowbar’s chest. His lower half is concave where Boxcar’s fist smashed him open and Die has a hand resting in the hole, running his fingers along the bone and guts inside of him. He likes the way Crowbar looks, almost stunned by the blast, but then he changes his mind and decides he doesn’t, so he closes Crowbar’s eyes and pins them shut. There, better. 

It’s only as the gunfire gets near that he reluctantly untangles himself from Crowbar and dresses again. He remembers too late that he hasn’t washed the blood off his body and he looks at his clothes, groaning with disappointment as he realizes he’s stained them, again. Die glowers down at Crowbar, then waivers. It’s not Crowbar’s fault that Die didn’t remember to clean up first. 

He leans down and gives Crowbar’s corpse a quick kiss before pulling his pin out of the doll. The timeline he’s in shrivels and he pops back into one where Crowbar’s still alive. And speaking of Crowbar, there he is, looking at Die with mild horror in his eyes. “Are you okay?” 

"I’m FINE." Die says, shoving his doll in his coat and quickly stomping off. It’s only after he’s around the corner does he stop to touch his mouth, remembering the feeling of Crowbar’s mouth-

And coming away with blood on his fingers. Oh right. Well that explained the look on Crowbar’s face. Die slunk off to scrub off the blood before anyone else spotted him.


	107. Fountain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> luckyspike asked:  
> snowman is a segway cop, the midnight crew are drunken college students caught naked in a fountain by the library

It was halfway through lunch when Snowman turned to Crowbar with a deep frown on her face. “Do you ever feel like you’re in the wrong world?”

"Uh. Well, wrong job usually. This isn’t exactly what I had in mind for myself when I graduated." He looked down at his security uniform, remembering vaguely a time when he had dreams beyond ‘make this month’s house payment’. “Maybe the wrong town-"

"No, wrong world, wrong… everything." She gestures to their surroundings, which are mostly empty since the students are in classes. “It’s as if… as if I were a character meant for some other story but I was put here instead." 

Crowbar frowns. What she’s saying is insane, and yet… 

Their walky-talkies crackle and come to life. “288 at Central Plaza Fountain.” 

Snowman makes a face and so does Crowbar. A 288 is lewd conduct which could be anything from a flasher to a streaker to a pair of students fucking in the bushes, but more likely it’s a bunch of idiots skinny-dipping in the fountain. They abandon their lunches and head to their segways, Crowbar forgetting all about Snowman’s talk about wrong worlds. He’s got a job to do and he’s going to do it.


	108. Queer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> so if the felt are a species where homosexuals are the norm then does crowbar have even more issues about dating snowman?

They keep it quiet. He gets enough shit from the guys as it stands, ribbing him for not filling his charms and badgering him whenever he spends too much time with Snowman. Itchy’s jokes about him favouring Snowman because he wants to fuck her that hit a little too close to him and make him wonder what they would think if they found out that he wants a whole lot more from her than just physical intimacy. 

He tries to tell her a few times, tries to explain that what they’ve got is… different. Crowbar explains charms and troves and that until her, he’d never even known there was such a thing as another gender, and he tries to put his feelings into words and it all just sounds like bullshit, like a lie you tell to flatter someone into feeling more important than they are. Crowbar hates the way the words sound and he quits when the words give out on him and leave him stranded. 

To his relief, she understands the need to keep it quiet. She’s got her own reasons for wanting their relationship to stay between them, ranging from the fact that she’s a widow to the fact that Slick has a habit of killing or destroying anything he knows makes her happy. Snowman seems content to keep things professional outside of the bedroom, and even more content to just lounge naked in his bed and talk to him for hours. 

Crowbar wishes he could trove up with her, but their ideas of romance don’t quite match and he doesn’t want to risk what he has with her to fit those boxes that the other guys have a hard enough time filling, and they’re doing that with the ‘right’ people. A part of him wants it though, wants to find some way to fill every charm with her so he’ll never need anyone else ever again. It’s fucking stupid and he knows it though - nobody can be your everything. 

He asks her once if she wishes he could be more like what she needs, a husband maybe or whatever it is she had. Snowman gives him a sad smile and kisses him, but the no is clear as crystal in her eyes when she tells him that one husband was enough for one lifetime. He’s never certain if he feels relieved by that or not.


	109. 11-23-2945 14-17-06.fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> What would happen if someone taught Itchy how to hack (Wikipedia or some other website) since he is so fast and probably would be a fast typist

Doze is the middle of a good grove when half a dozen messages pop up in his field a vision, all one right after the other. He scowls and sends off a quick message back. <I didn’t tell you how to get past my firewall so you could do this>

<U DID IT SO I CULD SEND YOU SEXY PICS N MESSGES DON’T FUCKIN LIE>  
<HERES A PIC OF ME IM NAILDIN THID DUDE IN THE WASHRM>  
<SRSLY I MIS U HES FUKING AWUL I WNT UR DIK>  
<GONA COM HOME N GET IT>  
<SEND ME 500BUX I FOND A DEALR WITH DYYY N LYFE OR W/E THAT SHIT U LIKE IS>  
<COM OOOOOOOOONNNNN>

Doze blinks a little as the messages swarm up. There are a few incredibly explicit photographs that Itchy’s managed to snap even though he’s facing the wrong way for them. He saves them to the drive he reserves entirely for things Itchy sends him, eyeing the rapidly shrinking space. After that, it’s just a matter of transferring money to him and a quick <Get his number, stop screaming> that he knows will probably be forgotten. 

A few more pics appear, treating Doze to a high definition view of some stranger’s ballsac. He twists his nose and deletes those, since Itchy’s absent from them. 

<KKKKKKKKKKKKK>  
<LUV U>  
<GONA FUK UR PRTS TONITE>  
<JACK INTO U>  
<BE RDY FOR ME>

Doze shakes his head - metaphorically anyway, he’s strapped into his console and can’t move anything until he triggers the release button - and does his best to get back to work even though the groove’s been broken. At least Itchy’s keeping himself busy away from Doze. The last time he stayed home, he attempted to ‘hack the internets’ and his only real accomplishment after Doze showed him how to actually do it properly was to replace the UN’s webpage with a dickpic. At least that hadn’t ended with uncomfortable visits from men in suits with no senses of humor.


	110. Slam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> okay so die gets the courage to go up to crowbar and is all ' hey lil mama lemme whisper in yo ear'. crowbar likes it then they bang

"Yeah no man, I heard him talking about how he fucking loves Alternian slam poetry the other day. You should totally fucking run some by him." Itchy hands out some of the worst advice he’s ever come up with, managing to deliver it completely straight faced. Trace, the dumb fuck, grins but nods along anyway, smart enough not to open his mouth. "You should regale him with some of that shit." 

"You’re not lying to me are you? If you’re lying to me I’ll-" Die tries to threaten him but Itchy just holds up a hand to stop him before he bores them all. 

"Yeah yeah, you’ll go to a timeline where I’m dead and jerk off over my body, I got you." He flips through the book of slam poetry and hands it to Die. "That’s the one you want. Whispering Sweet Nothings To The One I Pity The Most." 

Die reads over it, mouth working through some of the words. “I don’t know what a bone bulge is.” 

"It’s a fucking metaphor for their hearts or some shit. Like, see, this like. Ay cur, wait until thy sees my bone bulge. Like, that shit is all about wanting to show them your love." He skims a little further down, pausing to kick Trace in the shin when the dumb fucker starts snickering. "Yeah see, then after he says that, he’s like, I will assault your seedflap. That’s your insecurities and shit in troll-speak." 

He thinks maybe that one was a bit too much to believe and that Die will call him out, but Die must be really desperate because he nods instead. “Okay, I think I get it. You’re sure he’ll like it?” 

"You know he’s been learning that shit so he can speak with the little boss man’s troll friend guy." Itchy gives Die a bit of a pat on the back and a push. "Go on, woo the fuck out of him." 

Die doesn’t even say thanks for all of Itchy and Trace’s hard work helping him, skulking out instantly. Trace has a meltdown the moment the door shuts, laughing himself sick and Itchy just lets him lose it, heading for the nearest window. He’s going to have a front row seat to this shit, even if he’s got to climb the mansion’s roofs to do so. Crowbar’s room is up and over and he gets moving, excited to see Die crash and fucking burn.


	111. High Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> In which Crowbar is accidentally turned into a chicken by Die, freaks out, and gets lost

Crowbar finds Die naked, openly weeping and staring at a dead chicken in the middle of the foyer. He wishes desperately that he could be surprised or even shocked, but all he feels is just weary. “Die-“

"I’m soooorrrryyyyyy!" He wails, still staring at the chicken. "I didn’t meaaaan toooooooo! I just wanted to keeeeeeeep yo-"

"Quiet, shhhh, shhhh, there are people sleeping." And Crowbar doesn’t want them walking in on this whole situation. He carefully walks toward Die, trying to be soothing instead of what-the-helling him right off the bat. "How about we go back to your room-"

"I’M SORRY YOU’RE DEAD!" Die fucking wails and falls on the chicken and clutches it to his check. The poor thing flops around, no dignity in death for it. "I DIDN’T MEAN TO TURN YOU INTO A CHICKEN! I DIDN’T MEAN FOR YOU TO GET SCARED AND RUN AWAY!" 

Crowbar pauses, looking at the chicken, then kneeling in front of Die and getting a good look at the man’s eyes. They’re red from crying, and even more red from whatever the fuck he’s been taking. This isn’t just weed. “Die what drugs were you taking?” 

He just stars at Crowbar, still weeping steadily, and squeezes that dead chicken hard enough to snap a few bones. His voice is hoarse as he looks Crowbar dead in the eye. “Please don’t kill me because I killed you. I’ll go to a timeline where you’re alive and make it all better.” 

Then he sticks a knife into the dead chicken. Die has written CROWBAR on the handle, perhaps in an attempt to force it to act like a pin. Crowbar decides that’s a good point at which to get up and walk away. He’ll try again when Die comes down and after Crowbar does a count of the steak knives to figure out exactly how many are missing.


	112. Box

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> the felt can also change sex if they're really super not into someone of the same sex. itchy sexually harasses the rest of the felt into girls. everyone else's reactions???

They send Snowman down to deal with Itchy since she’s the only one whose genitals stay in her preferred configuration when she’s around him for more than ten minutes. She’s not entirely sure what to say to him, or how to react when she finds him naked in front of a mirror. 

"Heeeey Snowman! Can you come here and be like really fucking disdainful for for a moment? I want to trade the tackle in for a box." He thrusts his pelvis at the mirror, apparently still too phallic for his tastes. "I’m thinking if you act disgusted maybe I’ll switch." 

"The others want you to stop flirting with them. You’re making things every complicated." She glances at the seat nearby and decides not to take it while Itchy remains pantsless. "Stitch is tired of adjusting clothes for changing bodies." 

"Yo it isn’t my fault those fuckers have wide hips. But holy shit have you seen Doze? His curves go on for fucking ever." Itchy waggles his hips a little. The gesture is infinitely more lewd without pants, but also more inherently hilarious. "He still won’t let me into his pants though. I’ve been holding off because I don’t want him to change things up again before I get a chance to nail him." 

"You may be waiting a very long time then." Snowman really isn’t sure what she’s supposed to accomplish here. It’s clear to her that Itchy doesn’t care which sex someone is or what gender, just if he can sleep with them or not. She thinks it over and tries a different tactic. "I would be careful if I were you. If you keep this up, they might find a variation that has no genitals to speak of."

"So? There’s plenty of holes left to fuck even if they get rid of the junk in the front." He casts his eyes up and down Snowman. "I can think of a dozen different things to do to you that don’t even need me going near your cunt. Do you want to hear-"

She slaps him hard enough to leave a bruise and walks out. As she shuts the door, she hears him yell out with excitement about his body changing, and she just walks away as fast as she can, desperate not to hear him describe what has him excited in horrific detail.


	113. Phone Sex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> luckyspike asked:  
> Snowman laughing over slick and droogs ill fated attempts at sexing each other

The phone rings just as she’s about to settle into the bath and with some rather obvious annoyance, Snowman forgoes removing her robe and walks into her boudoir, picking up the phone and answering it tersely. “Yes?” 

"Heeeeeeey Snowman. Snowy. Snow snow snooooow." It’s Slick and he’s so drunk that she can almost believe she can smell him through the phone. "Hiiii, hey, so, uh. So. What are you wearing? Is it nice?"

"Slick, if you call back when I hang up, I will find where you are and nail your hands to your knees." Snowman gets to the point. 

"Wait wait wait don’t hang up! Look I just really need your help here. C’mon on, just fucking… give me a hand here. Metaphorically speaking." He hushes his voice and goes quiet, yelling out to someone else, "HOLD YOUR HORSES, I’M FUCKING TAKING A PISS." 

The man who responds is barely above a whisper over the phone but she would know that voice anywhere. “Slick, what are you and Droog doing?”

"Uh. Well. I’m trying to fucking nail him, y’know. ‘cause we’ve never banged right? Gotta fucking get that shit done with and. I’m having trouble uh. Threading that needle. I mean, I’ve drunk a lot. Fucking whiskey dick strikes at the worst times, right? But BUT but then I thought-" He just meanders and she boggles a little at how drunk he is and how delightfully terrible this whole situation is becoming, "-y’know, I always get it up with you. So c’mon. Help me out. Gimme a boner so I can fuck that smug piece of shit." 

"And how do you plan on keeping your erection once I’m off the phone?" Snowman points out to him, wondering how far he’s thought this through. 

"Well. I uh. I can call back if I get a little limp. But I’ll be fucking fiiiine once I’m in. Uh. Probably. Maybe I’ll pretend it’s your ass." Slick sighs a little, longingly. "What you wearing?"

"My robe. I was about to step into the bath." Snowman looks at the clock and crosses her legs, leaning back on the couch. "What about you?" 

"Pants, partly open. Droog got the fly down and tried to blow me for a bit- wait do you think he’d do that again with you on the phone? Hold on-" She hears him fumble with the phone, yelling out for Droog and mumbling something to him through the door.

The resulting fight is quick and hard to understand over the phone, but after a good five minutes, she hears the sound stop and someone pick up the phone. Snowman hears Slick whining loudly in the far background and she just smiles to herself. "Hello Droog." 

"Snowman." He’s out of breath and doing a poor job of hiding it. "Have a good night."

He hangs up and she just laughs, doing the same. Snowman stands and sheds her robe, heading for the tub. But then she pauses and unplugs her phone from the wall. There, she’ll have a little peace and quiet. And if he phones back, Slick can try his luck with Itchy instead.


	114. Skullfuck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> so how serious were you about slick being the kind of guy who would fuck a stab wound?

Slick doesn’t usually smoke after sex but, after finding a pack of cigarettes in Big Red’s coat pocket, he helps himself to them, leaning up against the wall and lighting himself one. It’s good, really good, and he just leans there, listening to the big man struggle to breath. 

"Y’know, you’re a tough bastard. I would have figured you’d be dead by now." He glances towards the big Dersite’s chest, and the dozens of stab wounds Slick stuck in it before he went down. The guy’s whistling like a wet tea kettle. Slick nudges him with his foot. "Hurry it the fuck up." 

BR tries to say something, coughing instead and splattering blood on the ground with flem and other things. Slick laughs and sneers at the same time, shaking his head. 

"That’s fucking disgusting. Don’t spit that back out at me. I left that shit in your lungs to keep from having to clean a mess up." He glances down at his thighs, which are scarlet with blood and shrugs. "More of a mess anyway." 

Big Red gurgles but still, the big fucker doesn’t die. At least one of those lungs is collapsed, but somehow he’s limping along on the other one. That’s what Slick gets for not making sure he’s got them both equally stabbed. 

He enjoys his cigarette and when it’s done, he leans forward and drops the butt into Big Red’s chest to watch his body try to heave and flail as the coal burns him. Slick grabs his knife and takes a seat on the big guy’s face, turning the blade in his hands. “Well if you’re going to stick around, then I’m having seconds.” 

Slick grins to himself and picks Big Red’s right eye. Might as well try something he’s never done before. Maybe he’ll see how well the big guy handles somebody scrambling his brains.


	115. Little Bastard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> reverse stabdads

Slick turns his lunch upside down on the table, letting the tupperware container, jello cup and juice box spill out on the surface. “Who wants to fucking trade?” 

Droog looks up from his own lunch, eyes what Slick has and shakes his head no, going back to his tomato soup. The little skull-shaped noodles aren’t to his taste, but he’d rather have this than whatever Karkat’s packed for Slick. 

"I’ll trade you for the jello cup!" Deuce offers Slick his own sandwich. "It’s honey ham and mustard on rye!" 

"Fuck no. You can have that shit anyway, I don’t want it." He slaps the jello cup down beside Deuce, who adds to the other pudding cup he has. The pudding has been eaten first, like always, and Deuce immediately starts on the cherry jello. 

Boxcars has his sandwich in his mouth already, speaking around a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly. “Nah.” 

"Come the fuck on Boxcars, your dad packs you like fucking four sandwiches! Give me one and you can have these fucking crab cakes. I’m so fucking tired of crab cakes!" There is a note of desperation in his voice. 

All the same, Boxcars shakes his head, finishing one sandwich and starting on another, washing them all down with chocolate milk. “Ask Snowman, her moms always send her with two lunches.” 

Slick glances in her direction and makes a face. “Yeah and they’re probably all covered in cooties and… fucking spiderwebs or something.” 

"No that stuff is just cotton candy." Deuce ever so helpfully replies between gulping down jello.

"Fuck it, whatever, I’m going to beat up some near and take their lunch. Maybe that WV kid. His dad always packs him good shit." Slick hands his juice to Deuce and heads off in search of something good to eat.


	116. Sick Burns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thespiandeacon asked:  
> Matchsticks gets lonely and starts a fire to makeout with himself.

Matchsticks can barely make himself meet Crowbar’s eye, fighting hard against the urge to just stare at the charred remains of the carpet. But since that burnt carpet is the reason he’s being lectured, he finds it hard to look at it too.

Crowbar just looks exhausted, rubbing his forehead. “Okay just… so it’s straight in my head. You were lonely. You thought… hey, I bet other versions of me are lonely too. I’ll start a fire.” 

"That’s simplifying it-" He starts to say and shuts up when Crowbar holds up a hand to silence him. 

"So you started a fire, and a version of you came out and you made out. But you left the fire going so more versions could join you and then… you burnt down the left wing of the mansion." Crowbar finally drops his hand. 

"Basically." He scratches at his side. "Can I have my matches back?" 

The look Crowbar gives him is all the answer he needs.


	117. Pocket Monsters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> glorifiedmonster asked:  
> what about everyone of the guys in the felt are now pocket sized and snowman has to try and not step on any of them

She very nearly does squish Itchy when the latter underestimates how excellent her hearing is and comments on the colour of her underwear (and she is so very glad that she wore some today or his comments would have convinced her to crush him flat). But she refrains, choosing instead to nab him and dangle him upside down for a good twenty minutes while she fetches the rest and finds pockets for them to sit in. 

Her trench has a number of pockets that she’s able to fit most of the Felt into. Clover ends up riding the brim of her hat, where she trusts his luck will keep him safe and he won’t be easily lost. Crowbar ends up on her shoulder so they can talk as she walks home, not trusting her ability to teleport in this particular situation. 

"Doc should know something to fix this. I’m sure I heard him talking a little about it the other day, when I didn’t know exactly what he was talking about." He shouts up to Snowman and she nods as they walk along. 

"Careful careful!" Clover shouts at her, dangling over the end of her brim. "You nearly knocked me off." 

Snowman gathers him up, not sure where to put him now. He’s small enough that the others might accidentally step on him. She knows it can’t be comfortable in her pockets. “Can you hold onto my shoulder like Crowbar?” 

"Oh no, that’s too difficult for me! I don’t have a very good grip!" The lurid little thing makes eyes at her. "But if you put me in your cleavage, I’d be ever so comfortable, and cushioned from any blows." 

"Hey hey, if that’s an option, I want in!" Itchy yells from one of her pockets. She gives Clover an unimpressed look and drops him into the same pocket as Cans. He’ll protect Clover, or he won’t and he’ll end up fine all the same. 

Crowbar clears his throat and when she glances at him, his face is beet red, but he’s glancing at her cleavage as well, clearly trying to find a way to broach the subject.

"No." Snowman shakes her head with impunity, and when he starts to stammer, she puts one large finger against his mouth (and most of his face). "No."


	118. Three's Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> snowman/crowbar/slick anything

They can’t sleep in the same bed and it’s not from a lack of trying. Sex is something they can manage in a bed (or anywhere really, so long as they all have enough room to move around), but sleeping is a whole other beast. They’re tragically incompatible for any period of time longer then three, maybe four minutes. 

Slick snores, and kicks and thrashes about if he’s not got his face buried in Snowman’s breasts and his body mostly on her. This doesn’t tend to make for a good sleep, so Snowman in turn breathes a little heavier than she will ever admit to and sprawls out more than necessary, which tends to leave Crowbar awake and crammed against the wall, or shoved off the bed. 

But if Slick doesn’t sleep on her chest, then his kicking keeps the others awake and he always seems to wake up when they shove him on the floor, even when he manages to sleep through being prodded and poked by them. And the moment he’s awake, they all end up awake thanks to his snarling and jibbering. 

Crowbar and Slick can only sleep together when they’re both too drunk to register how loud the other snores (and when he’s had a few fingers of whiskey in him, Crowbar saws logs with the best). Snowman tends to avoid the bedroom on those days, finding a quiet place of her own to sleep in. Mostly though, she remains queen of the bed (a term Slick hates, so of course she loves it) and who sleeps with her depends on who is determined to spend the night with her. 

Most of the time though, she sleeps alone in the bed, exiling Slick and Crowbar to other rooms. It’s not all that bad. After all, once you spend a full day listening to those two bicker, and spending a chunk of it bickering with Slick yourself, it’s nice to have a little bit of peace and quiet (and the assurance that they won’t wake you up in a few hours because they have a boner and don’t know how else to deal with it).


	119. Attack on Midnight City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> CROSSOVER WITH ONE OF THE BIG ANIMES RIGHT NOW

They start giving the familiar ones nicknames. You’re not supposed to name them but everybody does it anyway. You need some sort of shorthand so you can say “Hey, Clover was out near the bell tower today” or “SM saw Itchy running around near the wall” or “Do you think Cans will ever come back?”. 

You’re not supposed to name them or else you might sympathize with them, that’s what the commanders say. Slick figures that’s a bunch of shit. After you see your friend chewed up and spit up by Eggs, it’s hard to feel anything but pure unadulterated loathing for them. Deuce is the only one who doesn’t carry that hate and that’s because he’s too dumb to hate. It’s a wonder nobody’s done more than chew off a few fingers from his hands, but that’s Deuce for you.

Snowman’s sitting on the edge of the wall when Slick comes up for duty. He’s so tempted to sneak up on her and shove her off. How quick would she get her gear in motion? Maybe he’ll get lucky and there will be one of those giant green fucks below, just waiting to chew her up. 

Slick’s five steps away from her when she speaks up, making him freeze in his footsteps. “Crowbar’s back.”

He tries to play it off like he wasn’t doing anything, coming up to stand by her and looking down. She’s right; there he is. It’s been awhile since anyone saw him, not since the outer walls collapsed after Cans took them out. Slick sneers down at the the monster, not liking the way he’s looking up at them. “Somebody needs to kill him.” 

Snowman doesn’t answer Slick, looking down at Crowbar. “I wonder how much they understand.”

“Who gives a fuck what they understand? They want to make us into a fucking snack.” Slick drops down beside her, making sure not to be too close in case she thinks he’s fucking sweet on her or something. “I could probably slice him open while he’s staring up at you.” 

“Or he’ll grab hold of your wires and smash you against the wall, just like he did with the last guy who tried that.” Snowman reminds him. Slick just bares his teeth into a sneer. Not fucking likely. He’s better than that HK fucker ever could be. And sure as shit, he wouldn’t let Crowbar get anywhere near his fucking wires. 

Crowbar must have had enough of staring because he wanders away from the wall. Slick’s glad to see him go, but he doesn’t like the look he’s giving Snowman, casing glances over his shoulder as he walks away. “One of these days, that fucker’s going to eat you.” 

Snowman just smiles at Slick, all sharp teeth, and shrugs. “Things aren’t always what they seem.” And with that she stands and leaves Slick alone on the wall. He kicks a heel against it and makes a face. Fucking Felt. Just another grim reminder that carapacians never get a fucking break.


	120. Fruitful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> crowbara asked:  
> Crowbar n Snowman talk about kids.

It’s inevitable, she supposes. Committed relationships have certain milestones and though their situation doesn’t lend itself to being traditional, they still have those items come up now and then. They’ve kept their separate rooms, but some of their things are mingled between the two; a few of his pulp novels on her bedside table, a teapot with her favorite teas sitting on one of his shelves, a few changes in each of their closets, just in case of course. And though marriage is simply off the table, he shares her bed more than her husband ever did and their commitment is one she never doubts. 

Children come up, as children must in that sort of relationship, even though they are simply genetically incompatible when it comes to actually reproducing. They have enough trouble with their relationship barely fitting the heart charm. But there are lots of way to have a child, as Crowbar reminds her with his mouth grazing over her spine. 

“We can always adopt. There aren’t a lot of orphans but there are still enough.” His nose rests against her spine, tickling her a little. “Or if you want it to be your own, there’s artificial insemination.” 

“I’m barren.” She tells him, and when he freezes up, she rolls over to face him. “No, it’s good. I wouldn’t want to actually gestate anything. That would be too much, too close to being like one of those frogs.” Snowman makes a face at the thought. 

“Adoption then. We pick out a kid and raise him. Or her.” He adds quickly, remembering half a beat too late that there are more genders than ‘he’. Lord English certainly made an impression on the Felt about what pronouns exist. Crowbar glances at her breasts and has to force him to glance back up at her. “Wouldn’t it be nice to have a little kid around here?” 

“Until Itchy tells them how babies are made. Or someone starts a fire. Or Slick shows up unannounced with knives and explosives.” She runs a finger over his nose, giving a small boop and watching it quiver. It’s starting to shrink a little and she feels a bit sorry, giving the poor thing a smooch until it plumps up again. “I’d rather not adopt a child just to see them killed by Slick.” 

“They wouldn’t have to stay out here with the chucklefucks and morons. We could get a place in town, raise them quietly.” He kisses her, wrapping his arms around her waist. Crowbar strokes his fingers over her shell, rubbing along the plate gaps where it’s sensitive and makes her squirm a little. “Have a little family.” 

She bites her lip, then shrugs a little. “How about we start with something small, like a cat, and see how that goes? Then we can talk more about children.” 

The cat lasts two weeks. They decide that children are probably not the best idea after all, not while Slick exists.


	121. Pizza Envy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Cherubs are obligate carnivores. Lord English gets pizza envy.

“What did I tell you about eating that around the boss?” Crowbar would love to just clutch his head in his hands and sigh, but he doesn’t want to take his eyes off of them for even a second. He can still hear Caliborn cursing out everything at the top of his lungs, throwing a violent tantrum. They’re getting more and more destructive as the kid grows up and everyone flinches when they hear the smashing of something that is likely very expensive. “Guys…”

“I told him he could still eat with us, he’d just have to scrape the noodles out of it. It’s full of meat inside!” Trace pulls the top of his lasagna to prove his point. It’s true, it is full of some of the most tender beef any sort of carnivore could ever hope for. “See!” 

“He’s just being a teenager, looking for shit to go crazy about.” Fin seems unconcerned, though his eyes do keep glancing off in the direction Caliborn went, and the noise that keeps coming out of there. “He’s been mad all day because of the fucking clown.” 

“You should try talk to that guy instead of us!” Clover has been busy cramming his mouth full and he pauses only to titter to himself. “Oooooh maybe you should make the clown bring him something he can eat? They could fix up their trove.” 

“They’re not in a trove, or any charms, remember? And it’s not about the clown. Look.” Crowbar carefully points toward Trace’s exposed lasagna, motioning for the idiots to lean in close. “Yeah, it’s full of meat. Meat mixed with…?”

He waits for it to dawn on them. Clover gets it first, gasping and then giggling again. “Oh dear! No wonder he was so grumpy! He can’t eat this!” 

“Sure he can, it’s just meat and a little-” Trace stops then smacks his forehead. “Tomato sauce. Fuck!” 

“So it’s good he didn’t eat it, or we’d have Caliborn stuck in the bathroom and throwing a fit while, throwing up.” He frowns at Trace when he starts to laugh. Trace shuts up, taking his pointy hat off and sticking it over his mouth. Crowbar sighs as there’s the sound of something else breaking and the rattle of gunfire. “Is there any beef left that didn’t get covered in sauce?”

The sheepish looks on their faces say it all. Crowbar sighs and heads out to find something raw and bloody and purely meat to sooth Caliborn’s rage before he starts breaking stuff they need, like their legs.


	122. Yank

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> luckyspike asked:  
> im requesting lesbians ss/dd/snowman because of my needs

Droog wakes up cold all over, which is ridiculous. She’s in bed with two other women, there’s no possible way she could wake up cold. And yet here she is, her hands and feet like ice, as she opens her eyes to figure out what’s happened. 

Slick’s stolen all the blankets and she’s crammed herself against Snowman, attempting to roll up in her blankets too. There are three fucking covers on this bed and Slick’s got two of them around her and she’s trying hard to steal the third. The only reason Snowman seems to still have it is because she’s got an elbow up that’s keeping Slick from getting fully underneath it. 

Droog eyes up Slick and grabs hold of the blankets, ripping at them like the cord on a mower. Slick’s head smashes right into Snowman’s elbow as she topples out of the blankets. Droog swiftly tucks herself into them, sighing contently at how warm they are. Slick, of course, starts to curse, not sure what’s happened, turning her rage on Snowman and her elbow. 

Droog just burrows further into her blankets and ignores them both, slipping off into a warm and comfortable slumber.


	123. Slumber

He watches her sleep more often than he will ever admit. Crowbar feels creepy when he thinks about it too long, the same way he feels when he imagines what their children would look like, the same way he feels when he plays the songs he’s written about her even though they have no lyrics to give that away. He’s more invested that her and it bothers him when it shows.

Insomnia is the main reason he watches her sleep, awake all right long with a head full of racing thoughts. She sleeps soundly, though she will stir if he starts moving and he’s never sure if she was always that way or if this is Slick’s doing. Her body is always so loose and relaxed. Crowbar knows the same can’t be said for him, not when he grinds his teeth through half the night or waits restlessly for sleep to arrive.

Its not as good as sleep, but he likes watching her sleep. There’s an intimacy to those late night moments when he knows he’s one of a privileged few who had seen her like this, and most of the others are dead. And there’s trust: trust on her part that she can safely sleep beside her. Even though he feels bad for enjoying it so much, he wouldn’t stop unless she told him to. Crowbar loves her so much, and he loves these quiet moments when its just him and her, curled together in bed.


	124. Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Itchy hates when Trace takes Doze out at night. What would Itchy do?.

There are a lot of options he could take, but Itchy has found that sometimes the most successful way to ruin someone’s night isn’t through complicated behind the scenes fuckery but through straightforward interrupting. So he just strolls right into the restaurant, grabs a chair from a passing table, and drags it over to where Trace and Doze are. Everybody’s staring and from the way Doze is unsuccessfully avoiding eye contact with Itchy makes it clear that there’s no way that Trace is going to save this one. 

"So, what’s for dinner? That looks pretty great!" He steals Doze’s fork and helps himself to a bite of whatever is in front of him. Something with noodles and sauce. It’s pretty alright so he has another bite, all while Trace’s face twists up into a toothy enraged expression.

"Itchy, get the fuck out." He hisses through his teeth, or at least through the lower set of them. Itchy pokes the man’s underbite with the fork, then steals from Trace’s plate, easily dodging around the arm Trace tries to put up in front of Itchy and snagging a piece of meat. 

"Nah, you’ve got room for another. So what’s up, proposing he share a charm with you? Which one, hm? ‘cause you know Doze already has his hearts filled, right? You wouldn’t be trying to talk him into dropping out of it and hearting up with you?" He pops the meat in his mouth, chews a little, then spits it back on Trace’s plate. "Bleh, what’s that? Fish? That’s awful." 

"Itchy… please stop." Doze has his face in his hands. It’s cute and Itchy reaches under the table to give him a little grope, enjoying the startled sound Doze makes. "Itchy!" 

"C’mon, let’s ditch this place. I’ve got the car outside, we could go get something fucking greasy and delicious, buy a fucking 40, get drunk and fuck." He has another bite of Doze’s dish, then holds another forkful for Doze. "I mean, unless you really want to charm up this with jackass. If you really want to fill another charm, you should talk with Sawbuck instead of wasting your time on a charm-swindling asshole." 

"That’s it!" Trace shoves Itchy, trying to tip him out of his chair. Itchy gets his feet under him and scoops up the dish in front of Trace, smashing it into his face. He’s over the table in the next motion, take care not to disrupt Doze’s food as he kicks Trace’s chair over and scatters him out on the floor, like how Trace was trying to do to him. Trace sputters and Itchy just knees him in the chest. 

"Hearts is my charm you fucker, you stay the hell out of it." He gets up and brushes himself off, looking around. The patrons are suitably horrified and the head waiter’s talking to some large and imposing Prospitian who looks like he’ll smash Itchy into paste if he gets a hold of him. "Well time to go, c’mon Doze!" 

"You’re such an asshole." Doze says to him as Itchy scoops him out and they make a break for it. But he holds onto Itchy all the same so he knows Doze doesn’t really mean it.


	125. Wrong Charm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Sorry to bother you but will you ever do any more Trace/Doze ? "Creep" is still my favorite ff of you.

The problem isn’t that Doze is taken. He’s got six charms wide open and waiting for someone to make a move, and they’re pretty decent charms too. There’s nothing wrong with Horseshoes after all, or even Pots of Gold. Plenty of guys would kill to be Pots of Gold with somebody, and Doze would probably be great in that charm. Heck, if Trace tried really hard, he could probably trove up with Doze. I mean, once you’re in Horseshoes and Pots of Gold, Balloons isn’t that much of a stretch. It’s just a few more whoopee cushions and private jigs. 

The problem is that Trace doesn’t want those charms. The problem is that he wants Hearts and Rainbows and both of them are filled by that asshole Itchy. 

It’s poor taste to covet somebody’s filled charms, especially if they aren’t charmed anywhere else. Trace has Diamonds and Moons with Fin, which is fine and all but it’s not all he wants from life. He wants Doze, but it’s not enough to charm up with him in empty slots. Trace wants hearts. He wants rainbows. He maybe even wants stars, though at that point he would be taking all of Itchy’s charms and Trace knows how spiteful that asshole can be when you’re just looking longingly at his trove. 

Trace daydreams about hearts and rainbows sometimes. He imagines how nice it would be to just lie in bed with Doze and tickle him, or to go out on dates to nice restaurants and order good wine with him (Trace is not entirely clear on what good wine is but he feels like maybe Doze would know the difference). A lot of time is spent late at night thinking about Doze in the sack and how he would be really good, and also really unlikely to laugh at Trace because if he can sleep with Itchy, he’s got to be good at being sympathetic when things go wrong in the bedroom. Mostly though, he likes sitting beside Doze’s past trails and pretending to hold his hand where nobody can see. Well. Nobody but Fin but they have an agreement not to squeal on each other. 

Once, just once, when he was full of liquor (not good wine because even Trace knew that shit didn’t come in boxes), he found Doze alone and attempted to make his case for why they should be in hearts and even found the nerve to drunkenly kiss Doze in the corner. Whatever good memories he had of that came to an abrupt end when about four seconds after making contact with Doze’s mouth, he found himself on the floor with Itchy standing over top of him with a bucket of what turned out to be ice water. “Sober up shitlord, you’re macking on the wrong dude!” He had yelled while dumping it on Trace, and by the time he was done sputtering water out of his nose and mouth, Itchy had made a get-away with Doze. Trace still wasn’t sure that Doze had understood anything he had said, or that he ever understood why Trace had kissed him. 

One of these days, he would get drunk enough to make a move again. And this time, he was going to get Fin to be a bro and keep Itchy busy until after he got a chance to lay it out for Doze why they were just more comparable. Maybe it wouldn’t work but…

Oh who was he kidding, of course it wouldn’t work. Even Trace knew how much Doze liked Itchy. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t use it as an excuse to at least have one more kiss before Itchy wedgied him so hard that they would end up accidentally in Clovers.


	126. Dominate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> derples asked:  
> slick the tumblr dom

Slick started having misgivings the moment Snowman saw him and instead of showing any sort of reverence, she just said, “Why do you have two belts?” 

"What?" He looked down at his hands. "There’s only one belt and it’s for smacking your ass."

"But you’ve got a belt in your pants. That’s two belts." Snowman sits on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs and pointing out the obvious. Slick glances down at the belt looped through his pants and scowls to himself. "Why didn’t you use that one?"

He doesn’t want to explain that he got a second belt because he didn’t want his pants falling down when he took the belt out. “You aren’t supposed to ask questions, I’m being the dom this time.”

"Of course. My apologizes for undermining your authority." The way she smiles makes it clear that she doesn’t mean a word of it. Slick narrows his eyes. He wants to remind her that she promised they could do what he wanted, but there’s no way to say that without sounding whiny. And she knows that because she just smiles at him. "Go on." 

Slick slaps the belt against his palm again, hissing a little at how much it hurts. He grits his teeth and pumps himself up. He’s a dom. Slick’s no fucking sub. He can do this. He can make this bitch fall to her knees and beg him for more. Slick’s not her dog. He’s in control. He’s got the power. She’s got the pussy but he’s got the power here. 

He sucks in a breath and, just like he practiced, he extends a hand and makes the gesture. In his most commanding voice, he puts her in her place. “You. Come. Now.” 

Snowman sputters with laughter, holding her hand over her mouth for a few seconds to contain it before it floods over and she just laughs at him. Slick throws the belt at her and sulks out of the room, slamming the door behind him while that fucking she-witch laughs herself sick.


	127. Quirk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Itchy and clover decide to start speaking in quirks

Matchsticks doesn’t have the slightest idea what he’s wandered into when he finds Clover and Itchy spouting gibberish in the kitchen. He just wanted a late night snack. 

"Hfoury! Hfoury!" Clover is garbling out words and tittering to himself. "Mfourtchstickssss! We’ve got quirks!" 

"That’s roneght fuckeeeeer! And they’re the best motherfuckoneng quonerks too!" Itchy leans over and high-gives Clover as if anything they’ve said so far makes any sense at all. "Check thones shonet out! Onet’s loneke a secret fuckoneng language!"

"Nobody cfourn understfournd us except for us! We cfourn sfoury fournything!" Clover kicks his heels against the counter he’s sitting on, looking to Itchy. "Ooooh, I know something we cfourn do! Let’s go make pfoursses at everybody!" 

"Great fuckfourng fourdea!" Itchy leans against the counter and eyes Matchsticks up like he’s looking at a seven layer sandwich. "Hey, drop trou and one’ll suck your doneck and let you jonezz all over my face." 

"Fournd I’ll turn fourround and let you lick my foursshole!" The little shit is nearly dying laughing as he spits the garbage out. Matchsticks can’t exactly understand what they’re saying but he gets the drift.

"No." He says and turns around, heading out to get food from somewhere else, where he won’t get sexually harassed. 

"FUCKONENG BABY, COME BACK HERE AND LET ME TOUCH YOUR DONECK!" Itchy catcalls and Matchsticks just keeps moving quickly forward, hoping neither of them are smart enough to start a fire and force some poor future version of him to come back.


	128. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> luckyspike asked:  
> snowslick pacific rim au please :)

Snowman keeps the print-out in a folder under her mattress, along with a few other documents she needs to keep but would rather not acknowledge. 100% Compatible, it says, along with an assortment of other numbers that really don’t matter to anyone but her and a few other scientists. She thought it was a joke the first time the results came in, something that Clover had cooked up. It wasn’t a joke at all. 

Slick and Snowman have 58 kills to their name. They’ve been doing this for two years now and their combined kills are double what they managed teamed with anyone else. The rate at which the monsters come has increased of course, but it’s more than that. The time it takes to bring them down on their end has decreased. They’re brutal and efficient, and they’ve stained the oceans with more of that noxious blue blood than anyone else fighting alongside them. 

There’s a makeshift rig in her closet. She doesn’t leave it out in the open because she and Slick get enough snide remarks levelled at them as is. Snowman knows the real reason they show up to watch Slick and Snowman drift is just to sneak a peek at Slick’s constant erections. It’s a joke to them that he gets hard the moment they plug into each other, and she’s so glad they can’t see that she’s the same as him. Being in his mind is more of a turn-on than anything else she’s ever encountered, and he knows that, just as she knows the same goes for him.

Drift-sex isn’t strictly forbidden, but only because no one likes to acknowledge it happens. It’s embarrassing and shameful, and they both have a hard time looking each other in the eyes once the gear comes off. But while they’re wearing their homemade gear, while they’re dressed up like idiots with sensors stuck to their heads and cables sprawled over the sheets, they’re having the best goddamn sex of their lives. There’s never any need to correct each other or ask for anything - they know in an instance what does or doesn’t work, and they can shift and shimmy and twist until the other gets exactly what they need. The come-down sucks, but that moment when he’s in her and she’s in him and they’re both enveloped in each other’s minds… there’s nothing better. 

The gear stays in the closet and the papers stay under her mattress, and a little bit of Slick is always in her mind, always inside of her. Maybe it’s a joke, maybe it’s embarrassing, but she reminds herself that 58 is nothing to sneeze at. And though she’ll never admit it out loud, the sex is pretty goddamn phenomenal. The only thing she would change if she could is the ability to hide some things from Slick, because he is just fucking insufferable about the whole best-sex thing.


	129. Chatterboxes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hungoverskeletonguy asked:  
> Quarters/Itchy/Trace mainly because I'm curious on how you'll pull this off.

Quarters has no idea how this happened. He didn’t want any boyfriends, much less two of them, but he’s fairly certain he doesn’t have any actual say at what goes on in this fucking relationship. Itchy and Trace seem to be the ones who decide shit and then it gets relayed to him, like when they planned a night out and he found out about it when they burst into his room and made him change into a suit that wasn’t green, or like that time it turned out that they were fucking with Crowbar and he found out when they had him put buckets of water above every single door that Crowbar was going to be walking through for the next hour. 

The sex is pretty great, which is the reason why he’s been so willing to let those two decide what’s going on. And there are some unexpected plus sides to having two boyfriends. For one, they tend to end up sleeping curled up against each other so he can have his space, which is vital for him and there’s nothing worse than waking up in the middle night when Itchy accidentally nails him in the balls with a knee, or when Trace shoves his face against Quarter’s chest and fucks it up with his janky ass pointy teeth. Now he sleeps through the night and only has to deal with those two in the morning, when he actually wants to see them. 

Secondly, he can opt out of pillow talk and the small talk he gives no fucks about. Trace and Itchy are constantly fucking chattering, but at least it’s to each other. He only has to throw in the occasional “mmhm” or “sure” or “fuck off”, which is a relief for him. Talking about the weather or how hot Doze is or what’s crawled up Stitch’s ass this week doesn’t interest him, and he’s all too happy to leave that shit to them. 

Thirdly- oh fuck numbers, he hates ordered lists. He likes that they entertain each other so he doesn’t have to. Quarters appreciates that they both think he’s hot as shit when wielding a gun. He enjoys watching them fuck each other as much as he enjoys fucking them. Mostly, he likes that when they’re in a fighting mood, they fight with each other and all he has to do is pick them up and dangle them off the floor until they stop that shit. 

He’s not sure if being in a threesome means it’s really a trove, since they’re all charmed up in a chain, but he doesn’t really care about that romance shit either. Itchy cares and Trace does and they bicker and debate over which charms they fit into. Quarters is content to let them tell him if he’s hearts or stars or whatever. The answer’s always the same with a nod and a “sure”, and then he can go back to cleaning his guns and not worrying about the stuff that’s never really mattered to him. All that’s really important to him is that he goes to bed with them and he wakes up with them. Anything else is stuff they can handle for him.


	130. Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> if you're still doing fic requests? because if you are, maybe...droog/itchy? or crowbar/itchy

Crowbar doesn’t have the greatest track record with romance, which is why he doesn’t realize Itchy’s courting him until Stitch says, “So are you going to give in to Itchy or hold out for charming up with someone who isn’t a fucking wreck?” 

"What? Wait, what?" Crowbar stares dumbfounded at Stitch. "What?"

Stitch gives Crowbar a contemptuous look, one that Crowbar’s pretty sure he usually reserves for Eggs and Biscuits. “Itchy’s been flirting with you for the past two months. He wants to charm up with you. Why the hell did you think he was on his best behavior?”

Crowbar’s mouth opens and closes a few times. He tries to think back to the last conversation he had with Itchy, remembering that he just so ‘happened’ to have a bottle of Crowbar’s favorite gin. And come to think of it, all of their last conversations have gone similarly, with Itchy either doing what Crowbar wants without dragging his heels or gifting Crowbar something. It’s just that until this moment, he was under the impression that those gifts were better than usual bribes and his good behavior was covering up for some shitty scheme that would come to light when it blew up in his face. “What?” Is all Crowbar can manage to say.

Stitch rolls his eyes, tossing Crowbar’s newly stitched up jacket at him. “You’re fucking hopeless.” 

On the walk back to his room, he shrugs on his coat and reflects on what Stitch said to him. Was Itchy actually flirting with him? It was hard to tell, mostly because Itchy flirted with anything that had a pulse. And if Crowbar was being honest with himself, his track record with romance wasn’t too good. His few charms had fizzled out early on and he was busy enough that he hadn’t bothered to carve out any time for romance. Maybe that had left him rusty and unable to recognize when Itchy had moved from general flirting into more specific romancing.

"Heeeeeeeeeeey!" There’s a brief breeze that ghosts by him and resolves into Itchy, falling in step with Crowbar. "Looking sharp fucker! New jacket?"

"No, uh, Stitch just repaired my old one." He tugs a little at it, feeling the urge to clear his throat and make up an excuse to leave. Crowbar’s a professional so he doesn’t, raising his eyebrows instead. "You need anything?"

"Nah nah, I’m good, I’m just being social y’know?" Itchy grins, punching Crowbar in the arm. He’s standing pretty close to Crowbar, and it’s kind of impossible to ignore that now that Crowbar’s aware of Itchy’s intentions. "We should go into town and tear some shit up tonight."

"Maybe. How many guys are going?" If there’s more than five, they’ll have to take the van, which is just all around harder to park, which means Crowbar will have to think about the few places they can settled her in and rest assured it will be safe-

"Me and you, nobody else. I got my fucking car up and running, I figure we can take a spin in her!" Itchy grins. Oh. Crowbar opens his mouth, shutting it a moment later. Itchy is undeterred, bumping his shoulder into Crowbar’s. "Come ooooon. It’ll be fuuuun." 

No is on the tip of his tongue. No Itchy, it won’t be fun. No, I have work to do. No because this is a terrible idea. No because more people need to tell you no and mean it.

"Sure." He says instead. "What time?" 

"7pm, duuuuh." He damn near beams at Crowbar. Itchy zips off and Crowbar shakes his head a little and heads back to his room. He has no idea what to wear on this maybe-date. Oh well, he’s sure he’ll find something in his closet that will be fine.


	131. Loofah

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cineresis asked:  
> itchy typing die up bondage-style just so he can scrub his stomach-turning twat clean. loofah optional

Bathing Die is a lot like bathing a cat, except Itchy doesn’t fuck cats and also cats don’t usually need baths because they clean themselves. But much like a cat, Die flips the fuck out when someone puts him even slightly near a shower and he’s got no qualms about shredding your face right open with his nasty nails if he thinks it’ll help. He’s also bigger than a cat, which makes it harder to just strong-arm him into a tub.

So that’s how Itchy ends up buying a rope set, a spreader bar and a vial of chloroform. The chloroform is meant to be a back-up but he knows that he’s going to have to use it. Of course he’s going to have to use it. Still, he tries suggesting they try bondage. Die predictably stabs Itchy’s pin in his doll and disappears for three days before showing up even dirtier than he was before. Even the other guys are remarking on the smell of rotten blood and bread coming off of Die. 

Itchy is rather glad he’s basically unable to feel any remorse or pity because if he did, he would feel really shitty about having chloroformed Die during one of the smell asshole’s brief unconscious periods. It makes things much easier after an initial frantic struggle when Itchy can undress him at his leisure, pulling off the crusted and sweat-stained clothes. He burns them in a celebratory bonfire outside, knowing better than to try save them, and simply tells Stitch to give him whatever clean clothes Die has been refusing to wear. Then he gets to work with the ropes. 

By the time Die wakes back up, Itchy’s managed to put him through two separate baths. He sees those eyes lazily open and stare into the distance as Itchy finishes washing the grime out of the tub and starts running a new bath. “Heeeeeey fucker! There you are! We’re nearly done! Sorta. Mostly. I’m not sure I can scrub anymore without taking your skin off so, y’know.” 

Die incoherently screeches at Itchy the moment he’s awake enough to realize what’s going on. He continues to scream loudly as Itchy wrangles Die back into the hot bath and starts scrubbing with the loofah. The spreader bar has turned out to have been a great choice since he can get Die clean in all of his super problem areas. 

"Soooo in case you’re wondering what that feeling is, that’s the yeast infection tablet I got from Stitch. Lemme tell you man, you’re going to be feeling fine and fresh when we’re done this shit." He scrubs away at Die’s thighs until they start to look green, like thighs should. The water’s turning a pinkish-greyish colour but it’s turning less slowly than before. Die thrashes about in the water as Itchy continues to clean from an arm’s length away, scrubbing his charm-partner clean as a whistle. "I’ve got you some clean clothes too, nice shit from Stitch. The other guys won’t even recognize you when we’re done." 

Another endless incoherent screech from Die that finally resolves into words, most of which are a string of cursing with Itchy’s name interspersed. He just grins and keeps scrubbing, pausing only to dunk Die’s head under the water the once and to hear him gurgle like mad before yanking him up and scrubbing off the rest of his head and face.

When it’s done, he pulls the plug and lets another grey slurry of water disappear down the drain. He lays out Die’s clothes, along with his (now washed) doll and pins on the sink, and pulls Die out of the tub. Itchy makes sure that his exit path is clear, and he covers his hands over the restraints counting down in his head. “Now just remember how fucking lucky you are that I care about you enough to clean you.”

The furious look in Die’s eyes makes it clear that no, he does not believe for a second that he is lucky. Itchy hits the end of his mental countdown and quickly undoes the straps and unlocks the spreader bar, quickly sprinting out of the bathroom and slamming the door behind him. Itchy can hear Die hit the door half a second later, still screeching. 

"YOU’RE WELCOME!" Itchy yells and then quickly makes a break for his room, leaving the angry drenched and furious Die to burn off his rage and then (hopefully) get dressed.


End file.
